Cadence
by 8.Years.Of.Silence
Summary: It took numbers to storm Hell. The whole of the Heavenly Host, dispatched for one righteous soul. Balthazar didn't think it was worth it, but Castiel had. Too bad it wasn't Castiel who raised Dean Winchester from perdition. It really, really should have been have been; Balthazar was a crap choice by anyone's standards, including his own. S1-5 Alternate Timeline
1. Part I

_**Summary:** It took numbers to storm Hell. The whole of the Heavenly Host, dispatched for once righteous soul. Balthazar didn't think it was worth it - a suicide mission, in his opinion - but Castiel did. Too bad it wasn't Castiel who pulled the Righeous Man from Hell. It wasn't Castiel who raised Dean Winchester from perdition. It really should have been. _

_**A/Ns:** For those of you who follow The Road So Far (This Time Around), I am still working on it! There will be a new chapter this Sunday. In the meantime, I've been keeping the muse busy getting out some of the distracting stories she keeps trying to write instead. Hopefully that will clear the way for faster updates on TTSF(TTA) in the future._

 _This story is a little dark at the start, and not all that different from The Road So Far. It is yet another AU that poked me one night and just hasn't quit yet. However, I've attached a goal to this one: be less friggin' verbose. So here's my attempt to write a *short* little AU that, you know, re-writes half the series. (You'd think I didn't actually like Supernatural, what with my habit of deciding to change, you know, most of it -_-)_

 _ **Story Warnings:** Character death, depictions of violence, swearing_

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

 **Cadence**

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

 _Cadence: noun. The flow or rhythm of events,_

 _especially the pattern in which something is experienced_

 **Part I**

Dean tried not to fidget at the circular table, looking at his brother and Bobby. Sam seemed about as uncertain about this all as he did, but Bobby looked a smidge more comfortable with all this and Dean tried to take comfort in that. Tried to be like Bobby.

"Right." Pamela smoothed out the wrinkles in the velvety tablecloth in front of her before she placed her elbows onto the table, far apart, and placed her palms upright like some sort of ancient prayer form. She winked Dean's way and wiggled her fingers. The hunter startled, realizing what her hand was there for. "Take each other's hands. And I need to touch something our mystery monster touched."

Her perfectly manicured hand slid under the table before he could reach for her palm and he jumped yet again as it made its presence _very_ known somewhere a lot lower.

"Whoa!" He fought the blush that colored his cheeks as his brother snorted beside him. "Well he didn't touch me _there_."

Pamela laughed, an inviting sound that had Dean shifting in his seat for completely other reasons than her fingers purposefully dragging down his thigh and off his knee. "My mistake."

She withdrew the hand but her gaze remained on Dean, turning serious and expectant. She was waiting for him to procure something their mysterious monster had touched. Dean found himself swallowing a tad more forceful than he intended, thinking of that vibrant burn seared into the skin of his arm and the thing that must have left it behind. Clearing his throat awkwardly, eyes darting to Sam uncertainly – he hadn't seen it yet, damn it – he reached over with his other hand and started rolling up the sleeve of his t-shirt.

Sam sucked in a breath beside him, straightening at the sight of that hand print burned into his arm. Pamela eyed it for only a moment, hardly batting an eye, for which Dean was greatful, before she wrapped her significantly smaller palm across the mark. Dean shivered, but he didn't know if it was from the touch or something else deeper inside him. Or it could have just been little Dean getting all excited, no thanks to the woman who's hand was all but purring against him.

Was that even a thing? Could hands purr? Hell, if anyone could pull it off, it would be Pamela Barnes.

"Okay." The psychic took in a deep breath and her eyes slide shut, trance-like. Dean and Sam shared one more uncertain glance, Bobby shrugging at him with as much support as he could, before they all closed their eyes. When Pamela began, her voice was deep, even and powerful, but like silk. "I invoke, conjure, and command you, appear unto me before this circle."

Dean tried to focus past the smoothness of her voice, reminding himself that they were playing friggin' peekaboo with whatever hella powerful thing had pulled him out of hell. He cracked open an eye when nothing happened.

"I invoke, conjure, and command you, appear unto me before this circle."

He slid his eyes closed again as Pamela's fingers tightened into his bicep.

"I invoke, conjure, and command you, appear unto me before this circ-"

She gasped, the noise full of pain, and it broke quickly into something that was so much worse. Dean's eyes flew open as Pamela withdrew her fingers like she had been burned. The hunter found himself hissing as well, grabbing at his shoulder and the mark there that was freaking _smoking_. Literally smoking. Not some metaphor for the smoldering heat running beneath his puckered, scarred skin. No, the thing was _actually smoking_.

Sam was standing, caught between action and horror, Bobby leaning across the table in concern, but Pamela was the one who looked the most surprised.

"What the hell," Dean ground out through the burning heat, not unlike the Hellfire he actually did remember (and wasn't that just awesome). He clamped his hand down atop the wound, half expecting his arm to burst into flames, given the tendrils of black leaking out between his fingers. It was beginning to tamper off, at least, more of an after effect of whatever Pamela had done than something actively starting to catch fire on his arm.

As the pain receded to a dull throb and Dean finally let go of his arm, she shook her head. "I'm sorry, I've never seen that happen before."

"What was it?" Sam asked even as Bobby parroted with, " _What_ happen?"

Dean shook his arm out as his brother retook his seat and Pamela spread her hands across the table again.

"I didn't see anything clearly. Just…heat. An incredible heat and…darkness. Everywhere." She shook her head again. "I don't know. I think the connection wasn't strong enough."

"Maybe we should stop," Bobby offered, but Pamela was already trailing her hand down Dean's chest, much to his raised eyebrows and surprise. She winked at him again.

"Don't be silly. We just need something a little stronger." She slid her hand beneath the hem of Dean's shirt and started back up his bare chest, her soft skin tickling his torso. He gave an awkward, mostly nervous laugh as she settled her palm right over his heart, tapping his pec lightly. "This ought to do it. Close to your soul."

"You sure?" He asked, not sure who he was asking for: her or himself. His arm still tingled with the aftermath of that heat, but she looked confident as ever, so he tried to be as well.

"Of course," Pamela answered with another devilish smile. She closed her eyes once more, holding her hand out for Bobby, who reluctantly took it. The circle was formed and she began again. "I invoke, conjure, and command you, appear unto me before this circle."

The chant continued until the lights around them flickered and the table trembled beneath their elbows. Sam's eyes snapped open to meet his brother's, but he didn't appear to be in pain this time, only significantly freaked out.

Pamela kept chanting until the crescendo of her own voice, the shaking of the furniture, and the flickering lights ended so abruptly that the silence was shocking. The room fell dark and still as the psychic broke from the circle, eyes snapping open. There was real fear in them. Her hand flinched away from Dean's chest, and after a moment of surprise, she slid her arm out from under his shirt. Pamela looked shaken.

"What's wrong? What was it?" Dean reached for her but she flinched back momentarily and he stopped altogether. Her breathing was rough, but she was clearly trying to get it back under control.

"Pamela?" Bobby asked uncertainly, having never seen the psychic so scared.

"I'm okay," she whispered, then cleared her throat and repeated it more convincingly.

"What did you see?" Sam asked, the worry in his voice as sure as his concern for her. Dean shared a look with him, both knowing that if whatever had dragged him out of hell could mess her up so badly with just a peek…

"I didn't see it," she said, voice still shaky but strengthening. She straightened in her chair and finally met their eyes. "But it warned me to turn back. He-"

Her voice stuttered and broke as she took in another breath.

"He threatened to burn my eyes out if I kept going."

"Okay, we're done," Bobby replied immediately, as though anyone at the table would argue with that.

Pamela gave him that look all strong women gave men when they tried to protect them (and not just because they were women). As hunters in a world full of strong women, the boys weren't unused to seeing it. "I'm fine, Bobby. I just… It surprised me, is all."

Surprised her because she'd _believed it._ The voice had been so furious, so loud and demanding, she'd had to pull away. Part of her had been expecting to open her eyes to infinite darkness even after she did as she had been told.

"We should stop," Dean offered quietly and meaning it a hundred percent. He caught the psychic's gaze and offered the Winchester smile that always charmed even the most stubborn of ladies. "It's not worth it, Pamela."

She let out another shaky and then laughed, the noise clearly self-deprecating but also immensely relieved. "I'm sorry, I just-"

"Don't apologize," Sam countered, that Winchester smile on his face too, though his would always be the puppy-dog eidtion. "We'll find another way."

"You may not have to." Pamela placed her elbows back on the table gently, a contemplative and still slightly conspiratorial look crossing her face. "I didn't see what he was, but I did get a name."

Beside her, Dean straightened, face going blank in temporary surprise before he looked towards Sam and Bobby almost eagerly. It was a dreadful kind of eager, but still. One step closer to finding out who had dragged his ass out of Hell and why.

"What name?" Sam asked, almost breathless for the same reason.

Pamela spread her fingers out across the tablecloth and let out a sharp breath. She regarded each of the hunters in turn.

"Balthazar."


	2. Part II

_**Summary:** It took numbers to storm Hell. The whole of the Heavenly Host, dispatched for one righteous soul. Balthazar didn't think it was worth it - a suicide mission, in his opinion - but Castiel did. Too bad it wasn't Castiel who pulled the Righeous Man from Hell. It wasn't Castiel who raised Dean Winchester from perdition. It really should have been. Balthazar was a poor choice by anyone's standings, including his own._

 _ **A/Ns:** My original intention was to post this story on Wednesday evenings. Whelp, it took till Friday to realize that had been the plan, lol. It was a crazy busy week and I'm not used to worrying about chapters during the week._

 ** _Reviews:_** _Thanks for the support and interest for this story :) This chapter gets dark as we lay the groundwork for Balthazar being the one to raise Dean. And then we'll be all lined up to really get this story going. This is also the most verbose chapter, and I've told myself I'm not allowed to do it again going forward XD_

 _ **Story Warnings:** Character death, depictions of violence, swearing_

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

 **Part II**

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

The heat was extreme. So extreme as to be cloying, choking, difficult to breath in. It was merciless in its assault, against his eyes, his skin, his very being. Castiel was drowning in the heat, but he could not afford to falter. Not yet.

He clung to the soul in his arms, hiding its still-brilliant light – marred by that terrible black crevice of evil stretched over its surface – from the denizens of Hell that would devour it. The angel shoved himself further into the crack that ran between two large, broken slabs of a canyon. The surface was jagged, fierce and sharp and cutting like everything in Hell was, and it burned against his skin. His wings twitched in agony as feathers singed beneath the smoldering heat of the brimstone.

Castiel only needed a moment. A moment's rest to gather himself before he began again. He knew he could afford no more than one. He kept the Righteous Man's soul tucked against him with one hand; he would not let go of him in this hellscape, no matter the reason. He used his other hand to reach behind as far as he could. One deep breath. His fingers wrapped around the hilt of the Hell blade buried in the juncture of wing and scapula. Two breaths. Castiel closed his eyes and steeled himself.

On the third he pulled, and then he screamed.

The soul within his grasp writhed and wriggled, from terror or glee, Castiel did not know. Perhaps, did not want to know. Dean Winchester had broken on the rack. Purity spread across a slab of evil and made to absorb its foul stains. The state of his soul remained in the balance, it was yet to be seen if he would fight back the infection that marred his brilliance or fall prey to its darkness.

Castiel wanted to believe the Righteous Man would not so easily give in, but his belief was unlikely to sway the outcome, one way or another. Especially if he could not get Dean Winchester out of Hell.

The foul blade clattered to the ground and Castiel braced himself against the rock. He could feel grace and blood pour from the wound in his back, soon to attract all sorts of beasts and evils. His wing shook at its base, driving endless spikes of pain down his spine and arm, but there was nothing to be done about it. Flying had not been an option with the weapon dug in so deep. Trying would have surely severed his limb from him, and he could not yet lose his wings. He needed to fly.

The garrison was close, he could hear them fighting to clear the way. He had descended alone, breaking off from them once he had located the Righteous Man's soul and dive-bombed into the next layer of Hell in a foolish and blind fury, sure he could reach the soul crying out for salvation. He had reached him, had scooped him away from the damned soul spread across the rack, had snatched the blade from his hand, had cupped his face in his hands and announced, with all the authority and goodness he possessed, that Dean Winchester could be saved. Deserved to be saved.

Those vibrant green eyes – nothing but a representation in the soul's memory – had _ached_ to believe him.

Then the demon who ran the tower, who blackened souls and eyes with glee, returned and Castiel had not been fast enough. He looked down at the bloodied blade, smoldering against the heat-soaked ground beneath his feet. His grace coated the length of it, shimmering with light and beauty as nothing in Hell did. The steel hissed and spat against the purity, the two forces clashing with a boiling rage.

He clenched his fists, mindful of the soul within his care, and closed his eyes. His moment of respite was over. It was now or never. One final push for his garrison. If he could get this soul to them, his brothers would carry the way to the surface. They would save Dean Winchester and raise him from perdition.

The angel looked down at the ball of light, which hadn't calmed completely in his care but was no longer struggling in his grasp. Behind him, he stretched his wings experimentally and hissed against the immediate, blinding pain that flared through his back and well into the rest of him. He released the tension in his muscles and tendons and all but collapsed against the burning rocks, allowing them to hold him up despite the unending discomfort they offered.

He might not have it in him to make it. But he must. Castiel was pragmatic, but he was also a believer. He _must_.

Castiel looked down at his charge and made a decision quickly. It would call all the denizens of Hell to him faster than the grace leaking from his body, but it was a necessary risk. The Righteous Man could not be lost, not after everything. The angel cupped his hands around the soul. It fought him momentarily before settling again, a brilliant warmth between his fingers that tickled the edges of his grace. Castiel closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and began chanting.

His native tongue burned this far down in the pit, like the very air rebelled against its presence and command, but Castiel did not stop. His lips chapped, his mouth blistered and burned, but on he continued. The soul within his hands started to fidget, then fight in earnest, and finally scream in rage and pain as Castiel spliced the most infinitesimal sliver of his own power directly into the human soul.

It was unwise and unprecedented – might even be blasphemous, Castiel didn't know and didn't have the time or luxury to afford the thought – but it would mark the soul as belonging to him, and therefore to his brothers. To Heaven. To God. A beacon that would be seen throughout all of Hell, that would chase away those of impure taint who dared approach, and call to his celestial brethren should Castiel fall and the soul be lost in the roiling pit.

Dean Winchester would never again be made to break upon the rack or touch another blade of Hell. He _would_ be saved, even if Castiel failed to be the one to do it.

Opening fiery blue eyes burning with the excess of his grace, Castiel pushed himself off the brimstone and out of the crevice, exposing himself and his charge to the harsh elements of Hell and all its worst nightmares. He knew without a doubt that they were all headed his way. The angel cradled the Righteous Man protectively to his chest, eyes focused Heavenward, past the fire and screams, to where the lands of his Father awaited.

Castiel launched himself off the burning rock for one last, final flight.

-o-o-o-

Balthazar was entirely done with this. The sulfur, the demons, the death that clung to the air, to the never ending waves of buffeting heat. Hell was, well, _hell_ , and Balthazar hardly believed in the cause that had led him and his brothers down into this fire and brimstone to start with.

But Castiel had believed. He'd believed it so strongly, as his noble ass always did, that he'd taken off _on his own_. The bloody _idiot_. And now their garrison was fighting for its life on the edges of the outer circle of hell, with blood and sweat and grace, to keep the way clear for their brother's return.

Not that any of them really expected him to make it back.

The moment that righteous, noble, idiotic _ass_ had dove off the outer ring, into the depths of the abyss that no angel had yet dared breach – and which Balthazar had truly doubted they ever would – the entire garrison had known. You could feel it, in the undercurrent of their whispers, their dread, their combined graces that withered with the knowledge.

Their leader was long dead. No way was Castiel coming back. No way any angel could.

This whole entire mission was insane. They'd all likely die before their superiors realized it and called it quits. And if that didn't happen, then they were all absolutely dead, and all for a cause Balthazar had been struggling to believe in for centuries now. But damnit, Cassie was his friend (probably the last one he had left and the only reason he hadn't enacted his plan _yet_ ). He couldn't turn tail and run until he was sure. It wouldn't be the first time Castiel pulled off the impossible. Balthazar just prayed (to a man upstairs he barely cared about anymore) that Cassie hadn't used up his last miracle.

Not far from him, Hael was weakening. Balthazar could feel her grace starting to wither in exhaustion. She needed rest. They all did. Rachael and Hannah pushed on, but they were flagging as much as Balthazar himself was. Still, they push on all the same, holding the line for Castiel's return. Balthazar cursed their foolishness. It was insanity for their garrison leader to descend, particularly alone, and it was insanity to wait for him now. The angel continued to chide himself as each opportunity for escape passed, lost waiting for a brother who was never coming back.

Yet still, they stayed. _He_ stayed. Not just yet, he would say. Soon, he promised himself. As soon as he sees Castiel, or they all feel the supernova of his extinguished grace. Then he would make good on his plan and leave this hell behind him once and for all.

Uriel was the first to spot him. Castiel was far below, carrying a glowing beacon of light, as he flew up, up, up. A torrential wave of demons followed, only feet behind, as together the group of Heaven, human, and Hell surged towards the ledge and the outer ring of Hell.

Unbelievable. He'd done it. Castiel had the Righteous Man in his arm, curled towards his chest. His blade was scorched by flame and bloodied with demon ichor, soon to be coated in more, given the winged beasts hot on his heels that were soon to overtake him.

The garrison redoubled its efforts with a battle cry as their leader, once again, achieved the impossible. Castiel surged closer to them and the mass of demons followed, biting at him, snatching and slashing and clawing, ever closer to the angels fighting to keep clear his approach. The fastest of the demons broke away from the wave, forgoing the fresh meal of one angel for the dozen presented within reach just above them.

As the strongest in the garrison, Uriel had always been a force to be reckoned with and today he put those talents of anger and violence to good use. He was a wrecking ball, charging the first of the demon hoard to make the edge taking down entire swaths of hellspawn with meaty, hefty swings of his blade. But he was pushed back soon enough, weighed down by the amassing demons that answer his challenging bellows.

Balthazar took his place immediately. He was the nearest, and his eyes were only for his brother, so close as he flew through the swarms of beasts clinging to him, grabbing at him. As soon as he was within reach, Balthazar dove off the edge to reach for him, with little other thought than catching his brother. He felt another – Rachel – cling to his waist and anchor him to the ledge of rock. Another joined her – Hael – and Balthazar reached for Castiel as he grew close. So close now.

He latched onto his brother's outstretched sword arm, snatching his wrist, as the wave of demons who had followed him from the depths crashed up and into them. Like a tidal wave, they washed over the edge and overtook the garrison. It was all Balthazar could do to keep his grip on Castiel as claws and sulfur and foulness raked at them from all sides. The garrison was overwhelmed but fought on, battling the wave of demons back. Back over the edge, back into the abyss, back to clear the way.

Balthazar hung on to his brother, slicing at the demons that clung to him with his one free hand. Castiel had none – his sword arm gripped in his brother's hand and his other shielding the blinding soul from the hoard around them. His wings were singed and smoldering, but he flapped them again and again, swiping at the beasts who tried to pull him back into the depths. Balthazar clung tighter, knowing those wings would fly his brother no further if he fell now.

"I got you, Cassie," Balthazar gritted through his teeth, stabbing at everything black and fiery that moved within reach of his blade. "I've got you."

He could still feel Rachel wrapped around him, though she was battling off hellspawn of her, and he knew they were all so screwed. Insanity. That's what this was. An unbelievable suicide mission that had never stood a chance to begin with.

And then Hael went over the edge with a scream. The demons dug their claws in, her cries of pain piercing through each of them as heavenly light flooded the dim and dark, leaking from torn strips of skin. Balthazar met her eyes for only a moment as she descended into the canyon of writhing demons, and he knew she was a goner.

She knew it too. Hael pulled her blade out of the chest of a beast, ichor spraying across her beautiful face. Balthazar couldn't look away, though he knew what came next. It might just be the thing that saved them, and that hurt all the more. Hael plunged her blade into her own breast: a better end than anything waiting for her at the hands of the demons that surrounded her. Grace exploded in a supernova of light and disintegrated every demon in a hundred meter radius around them. Every angel in their unit (and likely the many more fighting throughout the depths of Hell) felt it, like a blade sunk into their own grace, like their death was all of theirs, not hers alone. But the garrison did not have time to mourn her death, nor honor her sacrifice. They had a battle to fight.

"Get up here, Cassie!" Balthazar screamed as Rachel latched back onto him with both hands and he felt Uriel join her now that there was a moment's reprieve from the beasts. They were pulling him back onto the ledge, and Castiel with them.

Until his brother screamed, head thrown back as the blue-white light of heaven flooded the opening of the canyon once more.

A demon, one of the older, more powerful ones, clung to his brother still. The damn thing didn't even have legs anymore, the appendages burned clean off by Hael's brilliant end. It dug its claws into Castiel's thighs and started digging with vigor, casting off strips of flesh in violent, angry strokes. Grace and life poured from the tears and grace and flesh hung from his brother like bloodied rags. Castiel could not shake the foul beast, and with his sword arm held by his desperate brother and the other hand cradling the Righteous Man's soul, he had no defense as the thing began to climb, shredding flesh and muscle as it went.

"Castiel!" Balthazar screamed it. The thing was out of range of his blade so he threw it, instead, knowing the move was damn stupid. If he missed, they'd both be defenseless. He didn't miss, but the thing didn't let go, either, even dead an angel blade buried clear down to bone in the beast's side. Balthazar wrapped his second hand around Castiel's wrist and renewed pulling with all his might, but he had no leverage, hanging off the rock with nothing but the other angels keeping him from falling too.

Other demons to survive Hael's last gift were starting to emerge from the walls and the depths and the skies. He could hear the charging of their feet and paws and masses back over the ledge, soon to re-engage the garrison. The next wave was coming. Ragged and diminished as the angels were, the unit would not survive a third attack.

One of the beasts, fervently scouring its way up the rock, launched itself at Castiel as soon as it was close enough. Balthazar unleashed a wave of grace, perhaps the last of his reserves, and light tore through the fire and heat around them. Cassie curled himself around the soul the best he could – Balthazar could hear it screaming against the onslaught – but it worked. Both hellspawn clinging to his brother tumbled away into the pit, taking Balthazar's sword with them.

But this stupid battle was so far from over it wasn't even funny. Bloody and fading, Castiel locked eyes with Balthazar and the angel found himself shaking his head before words had even formed. "Don't you dare."

The wounded angel reached up, stretching as far as he could, and pressed the brilliant soul into his brother's hands. It wasn't easy, what with the way Balthazar refused to let go of Castiel's wrists, but it was that or lose the Righteous Man back to the pit. As stubborn and angry at this suicide mission as Balthazar was, even he could not allow that to happen. He released one hand from Castiel's arm to scoop the blasted soul up.

One hand now free, Castiel released his blade from his other hand. It tumbled out of his palm and he caught it in the other. It was just in time to swipe at the next demon to launch itself towards them from the rock wall. It fell back with a terrifying screech. Others were climbing, not all of them stupid enough to go for the armed angel. Balthazar saw plenty that stuck to the rock, some eying him and many more that he knew would pass by in favor of the angels above.

"Get the soul to the surface!" Castiel cried out. They both could see the approaching mass of hellspawn below, those that could fly already surging up towards them. More would come from above, from the outer circle that may have been beaten back by Hell's forces or killed with their sister's death, but Hell had no shortage of beasts. The sounds of blades and angels in battle were already beginning to reign around them once more. They were surrounded by an approaching tidal wave, and there was just no way they were going to survive it if they couldn't break for the surface like _yesterday_.

"Not a chance without you," Balthazar still yelled back, trying to haul his brother up, but he had barely been making progress with two hands. Now, with only one, it was nothing but a waste of energy.

Castiel met his gaze once more, and Balthazar knew what he was about to do, sword already raising, poised to do it.

"Don't you bloody do it!" he screamed, but he knew he couldn't stop his friend – his last friend – from going supernova to save his men, his brothers.

"He's your charge now. Take care of him."

It wasn't fair. Balthazar wanted the whole world to end right then and there, because it wasn't fucking fair.

And then something was launching itself at them: a blur of black and ember that came from below. Just another demon that had scaled the rock, leaping right at Balthazar. It had a haunted, desperate look in its pitch black eyes, locked on the soul in the angel's hand.

The thing never made it, slamming into the wall inches beneath the angel and the soul, a celestial blade sticking out of one of its midnight eyes, pinning it to the canyon wall.

It was a good throw, strong and true, as only an angel ever was. Balthazar met Castiel's eyes, the angel swinging in his grip, weaponless, and for a single moment, he was relieved. Without that blade, Cassie couldn't go kamikaze on them.

Then the second wave was on them, and Balthazar wished his brother had let that blasted demon kill him, take the righteous man's soul, and then bloody killed himself all he wanted. Then all of this would just be over. Because his brother was ripped right out of his hand and pulled into the abyss, without a blade to end his life – the only thing that could – and nothing else but an overtaken garrison who had zero chance of rescuing him.

Castiel left Balthazar hanging there, with a broken soul in one hand, nothing in the other, one less brother in his life, and no more reasons to stay. And he had asked for none of those things. He would trade them all back in a human heartbeat.

He ripped Castiel's blade from rock and demon flesh and started killing any and everything around him. He was still screaming when Uriel hauled him over the edge and the garrison fled back towards the surface, however many bloodied demons and waves and years later. Balthazar didn't know, didn't remember, and didn't care. He didn't know how he kept hold of that stupid human in his hand, either. All he cared about was the brother they'd just left behind to a fate worse than death.

Rachael was the first to notice that he carried the Righteous Man, and wasn't that just the kicker. They had turned tail and run, left behind Castiel, and no one even knew they had their mission safely (ha!) in Balthazar's hands. And all it had cost them was seven of their garrison and their fearless leader.

His sister smacked him – apparently he'd been speaking aloud – and told him to get a grip; they had a mission and Castiel had given his last orders. She shoved him forward, up, toward the surface, and he wanted to. He wanted to so very badly; wanted to run, to escape like he should have long ago, long before they first dove into this hellhole. He'd had the whole thing planned: fake his death and make a run for it, live the high life on Earth for as long as the planet was left standing.

Truth be told, he hadn't even been sure he had the balls to do it. But he'd planned it. Really thought, maybe, maybe _this_ time he'd finally leave.

Now there wasn't a reason for him to stay.

Balthazar tried to pawn the soul off on his brethren – anyone who would take it, who was far better off with the responsibility and 'honor' than him – but none would. Word traveled fast, particularly when Rachael, their second in command now that Castiel was- was… Well, she made it perfectly clear as she sent Balthazar forward, onwards towards the surface and salvation and Heaven (might as well have been imprisonment), that the priority was the protection of Balthazar and the burden Castiel had used his dying breath to entrust him with.

Great. Thanks, _sis_.

No, thanks, _Cassie._

There his brothers and sisters were, honoring Castiel's final order, and Balthazar hated it. Hated it as they fought for the surface, guarding him above all else with each meter of hellish ground they gained. He should have left sooner. His grace ached for his brother. For this stupidity. The little ball of warbling grace keened in his hands and he hated the Righteous Man all the more for it.

So, towards the world above they fought and they flew and they eventually made it, with one broken little soul in tow that Balthazar was now somehow responsible for. And God, did he almost hate Castiel for that. Almost, but not quite. Soon, he was sure.

Zachariah congratulated him, and Balthazar wanted to punch him or throw up on him. Maybe he'd do both. The rest of the Heavenly Host was ordered out of Hell, and the pompous ass announced it with pride. Like they'd won. Only the stupid, damaged thing in Balthazar's hands had broken on the rack years before the Host had even gotten close. So they hadn't won, now had they? They'd _failed_. And they'd lost hundreds.

They'd lost Castiel.

The arrogant dick standing in front of him, grinning like Balthazar had brought him the winning lottery ticket on a silver platter they sure as shit couldn't afford but would pay back soon enough, didn't even care. Zachariah directed him back to Earth, where the broken thing's body lay buried six feet under, and suggested he hop to it. Couldn't have the Michael Sword floating around as nothing but a wandering bit of pieced together soul, or walking around in a corpse.

Balthazar was long past punching him. He'd upgraded to killing him. Put the stupid Righteous Man back in his stupid body, kill Zachariah, _then_ run away to a life of luxury.

Fuming and grief-laden, Balthazar headed back for Earth to a resounding chorus of cheers from brothers that could drop dead for all he cared. He had that pesky first step of his three-step plan to get started on.


	3. Part III

_**Summary:** It took numbers to storm Hell. The whole of the Heavenly Host, dispatched for one righteous soul. Balthazar didn't think it was worth it - a suicide mission, in his opinion - but Castiel did. Too bad it wasn't Castiel who pulled the Righeous Man from Hell. It wasn't Castiel who raised Dean Winchester from perdition. It really should have been. Balthazar was a poor choice by anyone's standings, including his own._

 _ **A/Ns:** Well, now we're just posting as soon as I realize what day of the week it is, pretty much._

 _ **Story Warnings:** Character death, depictions of violence, swearing_

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

 **Part III**

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Now, _now_ , Balthazar was sure he hated Castiel. He had to. There was nowhere else for all this, this abundance of _annoyance_ , to go but back to the angel that had saddled him with this mess to begin with. This mess being an obnoxious, arrogant, self-righteous, temperamental, childish, _dick_ of a human being. Balthazar thought he'd been bad as a soul, he was so much worse as a fleshy, living thing with a working mouth that _never stopped._

Worse yet (and this was the real kicker that had Balthazar certain he most definitely almost totally had to hate Castiel by now), he sort of liked the bastard.

Dean Winchester was a nuisance, and a pain in Balthazar's ass, and a measly human to boot. But he did at least have a sort of humor about him (one wouldn't call it _wit_ , per say, but it was mildly entertaining). And he'd surprised the angel at least once with his skill as a fighter (again, at least for a measly human) and an impressive ability to stay alive (thank God, or Balthazar would have up and had it; he was not piecing that whiney broken human back together _again_ , no matter what Zachariah thought he could order him to do). He had some guts for a human, too. Straight up _summoned_ Balthazar into some shitty barn in the middle of fucking nowhere America and _stabbed_ him in the chest. Oh, the human had needed new pants after the angel had finished paying him back for _that_.

Last but not least (and this one was absolutely, entirely Castiel's fault), he was better company than any one of Balthazar's surviving brothers, which just frankly pissed him off. He didn't like his family, there was no secret there, but it was _annoying_ to like a measly human more. If he'd just left when he wanted to, he could be living in the lap of luxury, _alone_ , and be all the better off for it, damnit.

Six months and this was what his brother had left him with. This was what his brother had left the _world_ with. A human Balthazar sort of liked better than his own family (but would probably just as likely kill for some peace and quiet), and the last straggles of misplaced fealty to a leader and friend now dead and gone, whose parting gift was really starting to wear those feelings down to little nubs of _I don't give a fuck_.

 _That_ was supposed to save the world. Two hairless apes and their sidekick substitute daddy, paired with an angel who'd rather be sipping gin and tonics right to the end of the world.

Castiel was an _idiot_.

"That guy's a dick." There was that mouth again, never shutting up, as the human had the brilliant idea to _join_ him on the picnic table outside of the dingy little motel room these two morons currently called home. Couldn't he tell that Balthazar had left that shithole smelling of piss and mold precisely to be _alone_ , damnit?

Still, the hairless little gerbil wasn't wrong, and Balthazar could snort his agreement there. "Uriel has always thought he was God's gift to, well, God."

Dean snorted right back and the two settled into a not comfortable but not uncomfortable silence. Their standing with one another was a weird one. Balthazar was fairly certain Dean disliked him about as equally as he disliked Dean, but he was also pretty sure the two of them made some odd pair of peas in an understanding pod that somehow transcended their mutual disdain for one another's species.

Balthazar didn't like it. Ditching this gig would have been so much easier if he found absolutely nothing agreeable about the little ingrate he was supposed to be protecting.

Dean fiddled with something in his hands, arms flung over his knees and back hunched as they sat on top of the picnic tables like they were two buddies sharing a pint (Balthazar snorted at that again, and while it got him a look, the human didn't comment). It was the keys to the Impala he was playing with – that ridiculous male-genitalia compensation machine that Dean had the audacity to be so haughty about – and the angel realized he must have been on his way out to the car and spotted him. Honestly, Balthazar was surprised Dean had joined him. His dislike of it alone should have chased the human off (worse for the fact that he knew he could use the company, worse-er that it was Dean providing it instead of one of his own brothers, and just the absolute worst-est that Balthazar found that _preferable_ ). If that hadn't done it, what Balthazar had in his own hands sure should have.

Dean gave the angel blade a side-eye that came with obvious caution, but Balthazar could see curiosity and actual interest starting to outweigh the fear and hunter's instinct of not-human-plus-armed-equals-bad-bad-bad (really, Balthazar was just so _touched_ he was the one to break through twenty something years of engrained human close-mindedness. Go him. Someone give him an award. Oh, I know: how about an all-expenses paid vacation to Tahiti lasting straight through till the end of the world?). But what the angel didn't realize was (and would probably begrudgingly add to Balthazar's list of things Dean did that were impressive but also annoying as shit) was that the hunter was observant, even if he tended to play dumb.

This wasn't the first angel blade the human had seen, and Dean had been paying attention. As a hunter, he could appreciate a weapon. He could break it down for weaknesses and strengths, gauge what to be wary of, and just how screwed he'd be in a fight against it. But Dean wasn't just a hunter; he was a weapons guy almost as much as he was a car guy. And the blades these angels carried around were gorgeous. Boring, in a way, given they all seemed to be the exact same and none of them took pride in the things as far as Dean could tell. But gorgeous.

Dean hadn't gotten a real good look at one yet (really wanted to hold one, feel the weight of it in his hand, give it a quick test run), but he'd seen something about them that had certainly caught his attention; they all seemed to glow. It was subtle, not like a light saber or anything nearly as cool, but there was an undercurrent of light that never seemed right with the position of the sun. Sometimes they glinted when they shouldn't. As far as the hunter could guess, and he really hadn't gotten to actually check one out, it was something to do with the funky metal they were made out of (nothing he'd seen before, that was for sure). So silver that they almost glowed white. Only they didn't. That had been his first conclusion; it must be a trick of the light or something. Only, yes, they friggin' did glow, thank you very much, he _wasn't_ crazy. So his second conclusion was probably something celestial; all lights and rainbows and unicorns or whatever.

Not this one, though. Dean couldn't help but be disappointed. He finally got close enough to one to check out that weirdo light without worrying about becoming an angel shish kabob, and it was the first of them to be dull. The so-silver-it-was-almost-white metal was dark, more like a sinister grey than those stupidly clean looking blades Uriel and Balthazar had both wielded before. It looked like the same alloy, just…Dean didn't know. Lifeless?

He knew that didn't make sense. It was a friggin' chunk of metal. Only no, it probably wasn't, because it belonged to an angel and nothing in Dean's life made much sense anymore. Not since an angel had pulled his sorry ass out of hell.

"If you're planning on stabbing Mr. Chuckles back there, you could at least let Sam and me in on the action."

The offer (and Dean was pretty sure it was a joke. Should be a joke. Only, ever since returning from Hell, he wasn't always sure anymore and sometimes the sheer need for a blade in his hand scared the crap out of him) earned him a wry smirk from the sarcastic, biting angel he'd decided to join for a mid-morning, stare-into-the-highway-because-apparently-we-have-nothing-better-to-be-doing picnic-table sitting session.

"Ask any one of my garrison, and they'd all tell you 'Mr. Chuckles' is the funniest one on the team."

Dean pulled his head back, offended as all get-out, and added just one more reason to his list of reasons to not like angels. "What the hell."

"I always thought he was a wanker," Balthazar added on, perhaps in response to Dean's mutter or maybe just because he felt like sharing. The two of them didn't really seem like they had the sharing type of relationship, though. Still, Dean silently added one more reason to his list of reasons to not hate at least one angel.

"I'm guessing you're not like most of those other guys in your garrison?" He kept it a sarcastic question, though, because God forbid (little on the nose, there, now…) he be caught actually liking this particular angel.

Balthazar snorted. "Thank Dad for that."

His eyes, or the eyes of his vessel at least, dropped to the blade in his hands and he lifted it, turning it this way and that with a weird sullenness that Dean didn't really get.

"There was one brother that I had some…infinitesimal smidgen of hope for." He tapped the tip of the blade against his palm and Dean suddenly understood why the thing was dull and dim. Balthazar was using past tense.

 _Jesus_.

"I'm sorry, man." And he mostly meant it. Dean didn't like most of the angels he'd met so far (okay, that was kind of not fair, considering he'd only met two. And he didn't like Balthazar, but he didn't like Uriel a hell of a lot more), but if there'd been one out there that this asshat had taken a liking too… Well, Dean could begrudgingly admit, at least to himself, that Balthazar's brother probably hadn't been so bad either. Besides, more than that, Dean knew what it was to be a brother, and he knew, as much as anyone on the planet could, what it was to lose one.

"It's something I actually envy about you pathetic little things, you know." Balthazar waved his hand idly, releasing the tip of the blade to do it, and Dean couldn't tell if he should be insulted or…honored? Well, definitely not honored. Let's just leave it at insulted or not insulted. "'Brother' is a term that means something to you people. To us, it's just a word our father used. Told us we were family, and so that's what we were. But it's meaningless to most."

The human stared at his hands and thought about a life where he didn't care as much about his brother as he did. A life without that close connection, that best friend, that person worth living for. "That sucks." He looked up and met the angel's gaze. "Having a brother's the best thing in my life."

Possibly the only thing, at least on the bad days.

"Castiel was as close as it got," Balthazar said, voice clear but thoughts dark. Castiel probably had been the best thing about his life, certainly the only thing worth sticking around for. With an annoyed sigh he disappeared the blade back into his sleeve (or wherever it was those bastards magically kept them; Dean had tried to figure that out more than once). "He was an annoying little bastard. So bloody noble. Believed in 'the cause'."

Dean was aware he probably shouldn't ask, but he couldn't help himself. "How'd he die?"

"Pulling your ass out of hell." Those grey-blue eyes locked on his and Dean kind of forgot how to breathe. There was, oddly enough, no anger or blame there like he had expected. Just…sorrow. And damn, if that didn't somehow make it so much worse. "He's the one that got you out. Or, at least to the point where the rest of us could get you to the surface. He's the one that gave you that mark."

Balthazar gestured to his arm with a careless wave of his hand, and Dean's gaze dropped to his bicep. There was a handprint there, burned into his flesh beneath his t-shirt and flannel. It had always scared the crap out of him, the power of the thing that pulled him out of hell, to burn his flesh with his friggin' _hand_. Now he just stared at it with a whole new kind of horror and a complete lack of anything to possibly say.

"If he was still alive, I'd have killed him myself for being so damn stupid." Balthazar was shaking his head. "I had a plan, you know. To leave it all behind. Get the hell out of this family and this life before it got me killed. Cassie got in the way of that. Shoved you into my arms and here I am, saddled. I didn't even tell him I'd do it. No promises or any of that cheesy, on-your-deathbed guilt trip. He just told me to do it, and here I am."

"Why haven't you?" When the angel gave him a side glance, Dean cleared his throat. "Left, I mean. You still could. Not like I'm gonna tell."

"I don't know." The angel heaved out another sigh, running his hands through his blonde hair as he leaned back. "Every day, I think, 'Today. Today's the day.' And yet." He gestured around them with wide, self-deprecating arms that he dropped with a weight Dean fully understood. "Castiel would have stayed."

And that, of all things, was something Dean understood. Keeping a promise to a brother who meant more than anything else in a life you didn't necessarily want to keep living. Balthazar might not have liked Dean, but he loved his brother, and that was something the human could understand more than most. Could respect. The two of them sat there in their not-uncomfortable silence and Dean added another item to his list of reasons to like at least this angel.

-o-o-o-

It was that understanding that they had sort of come to – the foolish need to fulfill stupid promises fueled by loyalty and loss and family – that saw the human/angel duo through the next couple of months. Dean was sure of it. When Uriel threatened to destroy an entire town, Balthazar told him to shove it. When a redheaded, mostly-human woman named Anna popped into their lives, Balthazar let her disappear with a couldn't-care-less shrug and a "I'll tell Uriel she went _'that way'_ " while the Winchesters smuggled her to safety. When Mr. Chuckles showed back up with the fucking demon that had tortured Dean (until there wasn't must left of the man he'd once been almost proud to be), he'd told Balthazar no and the angel said in his stupid English lilt, _'fine by me._ '

Mostly, though, it was that day on the picnic table that allowed Dean to believe the angel when Balthazar showed up in his dream one night, bloodied and breathing hard and telling him he and his brother needed to run.

"I like the lingerie choice," were the first words out of the angel's mouth, and Dean spun around in his booth to find Balthazar sitting next to him, bleeding from multiple spots. "Cherry red and lace are two of man's finest combos, if I do say so myself."

"What the hell," the hunter half-yelled it, the dream stripper scurrying off at the sudden change in atmosphere. It left the two of them alone in a high-backed, leather booth in an empty stripper joint, and Dean suddenly knew this was very much real and also entirely not. "What happened to you?"

"Uriel." Balthazar grimaced as he touched one of the lacerations on his face, but that one didn't seem as troubling as a few of the others.

"Uriel did all that?" Well, chalk up another reason to kill the bastard the next time Dean saw him. Just as soon as he figured out how to.

"Some of it. He was recruiting angels to turn against Heaven. Join Lucifer once he rises." The angel made a noise in the back of his throat as he pressed a hand to his bleeding side. "Guess he didn't get the memo that I'm not really a team-player."

Dean couldn't help the snort, but he was more worried about the first part of Balthazar's response. "You said he only did some of it?"

A soft glowing light began to pour out from beneath Balthazar's hand, illuminating the edges of his skin. Dean was pretty sure it was a healing sort of light, but he also knew these guys glowed for all sorts of reasons. "Heaven did the rest when I went to report his betrayal."

The hunter straightened against the red leather because that was in no way good news. That wasn't even news. Nope, it was straight up _bad_. "Heaven? As in, your brothers? The _good guys_?"

Not that Dean had ever actually trusted that, but for once he'd hoped he was just bitter and wrong. Some part of him had still assumed that angels were at least on the good side, even if that side was entirely their own and didn't really lined up with humanity. If there was one thing that should have been a thing, it was Heaven being at least a halfway decent place.

Really, Dean shouldn't even be that surprised, anymore.

"They tried to arrest me. Claimed I was the one killing the other angels and that Uriel's death was a convenient cover. I got away, but…" Balthazar shook his head. Instead of explaining, he pulled his hand to his side, palm and fingers stained red. Then, of all things, he started finger-painting on the surface of the table that Dean's Victoria Secret model had been strutting across only a few moments ago. "Look, we don't have much time. They're coming and I'm out of track to run on. You and your brother need to get somewhere safe. Somewhere Heaven doesn't know about."

Dean opened his mouth but Balthazar sent him a scathing look. "Don't tellme, you idiot. It's not safe."

"We're in my head."

The look the angel pinned him with could have withered steel. "Exactly."

Between the insults and the overload of oh-shit-this-is-so-freaking-bad, it was a too much to wrap his sleep-addled mind around (damnit, he'd been having a nice night, with a nice dream, why didn't shit ever go bad on already terrible nights?). The hunter just shook his head with an aggravated noise in the back of his throat. "What is going on, Balthazar?"

The blonde angel finished his little painting project, a circle divided into several sections, each with a unique symbol Dean didn't recognize. Nothing happened, though, so Dean figured it was missing the incantation to activate it. Weirdly enough, though, Balthazar left his hand hovering a couple inches above it, even as he turned his attention back to Dean.

"I don't know, but something's going down, and it's big. Don't trust anyone, especially not Heaven."

The hunter wanted to roll his eyes and tell him, _duh_ , but he didn't get the chance. They suddenly weren't alone, several men in suits popped into existence throughout the strip club. Angels. They zoned in on the pair in the booth quickly and started towards them. Dean scrambled for a weapon, but damnit, he didn't usually go armed into a gentleman's club _in his friggin' head_.

Balthazar slammed his hand down on the blood sigil and white light flared through the room, the screams of the angels drowned out by a ringing loud enough for Dean to cover his ears.

"What the hell?" he muttered, if only to make sure he still had his hearing.

"That won't last long." Balthazar turned back to him, but Dean was busy staring at the blackened symbol burned into the table where fresh blood had once been. The men in suits were gone, and Dean really friggin' wanted someone to start talking some sense here soon.

"Did that kill them?" he asked, eyes locked on the symbol and memorizing it. If only he had a friggin' camera. Not that it would do him much good, since this was all a dream and they were in his _head_.

"No. Banished them back to Heaven, but more will be coming. There's no time, so shut up and listen to me." Dean lifted his head and locked a very serious gaze on the angel's equally serious face. "Heaven is up to something. I don't know what, but I think they're playing you and your brother like a fiddle. I think Heaven is-"

Something moved on the edges of Dean's periphery, but when he looked there was no one there. But Balthazar was staring at the same spot. And he hadn't finished his sentence.

"Blast it, I'm out of time." He looked back to Dean, wincing with the movement though the human couldn't pinpoint which wound had caused it. "Get your brother and that stupid Junker of yours somewhere safe."

Dean latched onto Balthazar's wrist, something like worry curling in his stomach and he honestly thought it might just be for the angel. "What do you think Heaven is doing?"

Those steel-blue eyes darted over his shoulder again and he made an annoyed sound, but didn't leave like Dean was sure he wanted to. "I think they're letting the seals-"

White noise burst into existence between his ears so loudly that both eardrums protested and Dean sat up in bed with a gasp and a grimace. He clutched at his still ringing head in the darkness of a motel room in northern Nebraska.

"Shit." He shook his head, vision still back in that strip joint with the wounded angel. "Shit!"

Dean threw off the covers, yelling at Sammy to get up and get packed. They had to run and they apparently had to do it right friggin' then. Lucky for them, they lived light and never unpacked. The two Winchesters were out of the motel room and in the Impala booking it West within six minutes of Dean waking up. As they took off, he relayed what Balthazar had told him to Sam, but he didn't have answers for any of the question the younger Winchester had, and none for himself, either.

They didn't see Balthazar again for _months_. Dean should have demanded some way to at least contact the friggin' guy so he could ask if the asshole was even still alive and worth worrying about.


	4. Part IV

_**Summary:** It took numbers to storm Hell. The whole of the Heavenly Host, dispatched for one righteous soul. Balthazar didn't think it was worth it - a suicide mission, in his opinion - but Castiel did. Too bad it wasn't Castiel who pulled the Righeous Man from Hell. It wasn't Castiel who raised Dean Winchester from perdition. It really should have been. Balthazar was a poor choice by anyone's standings, including his own._

 _ **A/Ns:** For those following TRSF(TTA), I know I missed a post this weekend D: I'm still working on the next chapter, and RL has been excruciatingly busy this holiday season. I'm hoping to get a chapter up this weekend, since I'm going on vacation. Until then, the muse still seems interested in this one, so here's another chapter. Heads up, though, I probably won't get another chapter of this up until after the new year._

 _ **Story Warnings:** Character death, depictions of violence, swearing_

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

 **Part IV**

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Dean met his third angel a week after Balthazar popped into his head for a late-night chat and oh, yeah, run-for-your-lives warning. He and Sam could only stay off-grid for so long, even with the hex bags Bobby whipped up for them to do just that. They were hunters; it was in their blood to keep up the family business. Turned out, that actually made it pretty damn easy for someone with supernatural powers to find you.

Zachariah showed up in the middle of a hunt that Heaven had apparently orchestrated in order to draw the brothers out. That was probably the last straw either Winchester had when it came to holding out any hope or trust in the angels. They'd allowed four people to die at the hands of a vampire nest just so they could have a chat with the two hunters.

Oh, and they conveniently waited until the two had taken care of the monsters entirely by themselves – Sam getting a brand new scar running the length of his left shoulder blade for it – before showing up all haughty and demanding.

Dean instantly hated the portly, balding angel in his bad suit and tie. He'd never worked a desk job in his life, but he was pretty sure _this_ was the reason some people went postal on their bosses. Just about the moment he met Zachariah, he thought, ' _I should probably just kill this one now, ask questions later_.' He didn't, though. Mostly because, unfortunately, the Winchesters still didn't have a way to kill an angel. Another thing Balthazar could have left them before he, oh yeah, _left them_.

The first time the bastard showed himself, it was to ask the two where they had disappeared to, and then he followed it up by asking them where Balthazar was. Dean told him to go screw himself, and Zachariah spent the next six and a half minutes teaching the two humans where exactly they stood on the food chain.

Stomach cancer really wasn't one of those things either Winchester had ever really thought they needed to worry about.

After that, the bastard would pop back up from time to time with a task for them to do, which they would, but only under threat of more pain like the last round. More often than not, the orders would come with a demand about their errant angel. The pompous ass talked only to Dean, flat out ignoring Sam unless it was to degrade him for one thing or another, something that pissed Dean off so much that he _ached_ for a blade that would cut the bastard. It also guaranteed that Sam, the more likely of the two to actually work with Heaven, was staying as far away from them as possible.

Which meant he pretty much marched himself straight into Ruby's arms every opportunity he got, and there was shit Dean could do about it while Heaven marched his ass all over the damn country for truly useless causes.

The fourth time Zachariah showed up it was to tell them, haughtily, that Heaven had apprehended Balthazar and the angel was dead. Dean didn't believed it for a second. He was a liar and a pretty damn talented conman when he wanted to be; he knew another when he saw it. Unfortunately, his confidence that the angel was actually still alive, even if Heaven hadn't found him, dwindled every damn day, and it left both Winchesters without much against the storm clearly building on the horizon.

Like lining up the last domino in an endless, complicated pattern of messing with people's lives and _not_ helping, Heaven and Hell managed to finagle the brothers exactly where they needed them to be. That way, when push came to shove, their loyalty to each other wasn't enough to keep them together. Dean's insistence that they could face it without help – Team Free Will – wasn't enough to convince Sam. Hell, it was hardly enough to convince himself, most days.

When the younger Winchester inevitably chose a demon over his own brother, it left Dean with only one place to go.

-o-o-o-

The room was gaudy as hell. Seriously. What was up with angels and their interior decorating choices? Not that Dean hadn't figured the Louis XVI getup for Zachariah, a hundred percent. Probably the dickwad's idea of showing off power and superiority. God, what a douchebag.

"So, we gonna do this, or what?" Dean barked, throwing his hands in the air when the butt-muncher finally showed.

The angel smiled like slime, that is, if slime had a receding hairline and a mouth full of teeth that reminded Dean of a shark. "Patience, Dean. It's all coming together, and you're part in it is coming up."

"Yeah, and what is that part exactly?" Dean shoved his hands deep into his jeans pockets. He never liked the dirty feeling he always got anytime he had to deal with this particular angel. Like he needed a shower just from staring at the asshole. "I wanna know the game plan."

"Let us worry about that, Dean." God, he really hated the way that bastard said his name. He wanted to punch the stupid smile right off his stupid face. "For now, we want you focused. Relaxed. Try a burger; they're your favorite. From that seaside shack in Delaware. You were eleven, I think?"

Then he was gone, and good fucking riddance. Dean was seriously reconsidering his options – of which there were none – if it meant Zach was stuck holding the ball and Dean didn't have to deal with him anymore. He couldn't deny there was a definite desire to kill the angel. Michael would probably still deal, right? Bigger picture and all that.

While toying with the idea (which was also a non-starter, as Dean was pretty sure only one of those glowing blades could kill an angel, and he didn't have one (another thing Balthzar could have left them, seeing as he so handily had two. Thanks a million, Balth)), the hunter paced around the gaudy room, staring at over-the-top paintings of Heaven and Hell waging war. Like that's what he needed to be reminded of right now. His idle perimeter search (aka: bored-out-of-his-mind-wandering) passed by an idealistic statue of an angel and Dean suddenly found himself incapable of resisting.

Fuck this place and his 'hosts.'

He tipped the thing right over and off the table, just because he could. Watched it break just to see if Zachariah would show his ugly mug. Just to piss him off.

But it wasn't Zach that showed up.

"You bloody _idiot_!" Dean was whipped around by a harsh hand on his shoulder and shoved back into the wall, a hand slapped to his mouth before he could yell – or return insults – and the hunter found himself inches away from the missing angel. He might have tried to say his name out of pure surprise (and, okay, fine, maybe a little bit of relief) if the angel didn't have a firm clamp over his lips. "I risk my neck to warn you to stay away from the angels and what do you do? You run straight to them!"

Dean managed to rip Balthazar's hand away, likely because the angel let him, and growled back, "Where the hell have you been?!"

"Hiding, you gigantic moron!" The angel didn't release him, and the warning look in his eye suggested they were both about to be in a shit ton of trouble. "What part of 'Heaven will come after me for telling you this' did you not pick up on?"

Dean paused, the next insult on the tip of his tongue, but he warily regarded the angel he had (reluctantly) missed these past months. "Then why are you here now?"

"God, you're dense. I'm rescuing you!" Balthazar raised an angel blade – his own, given the shine of life coursing just beneath the metal – and Dean couldn't hide the flinch as the angel sliced the blade between them. But it wasn't human blood that spilt. At least, not entirely human. Dean watched, confused, as Balthazar dragged his fingers across his own bleeding arm and started painting on the wall beside Dean's head.

The hunter recognized the symbol from the dream strip joint immediately and tensed, realizing they'd soon have company.

"Give me your other blade," he demanded, thinking it was a fairly reasonable request. Those blades seemed to be the only thing that could kill an angel, and Dean knew Balthazar had two.

"Just shut up and stay still."

"What if I don't want to be rescued?" Dean countered, half out of the need to be pissy and half serious. No angel was going to boss him around, thank you very much. Which, yes, he realized the ridiculousness of that statement while literally held up in a waiting room, waiting for angels to show back up to order him around. Thank you, now _shut up_.

"Then you're an even bigger moron than I thought." Balthazar finished the painting and finally looked at the human he still had pressed to the wall. "Heaven is playing you, Dean, and you're _letting_ them."

"Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in."

Dean's eyes snapped over the angel's shoulder as Zachariah was suddenly in the room, along with two other angels in god awful suits.

"I figured you for a lot of things, Balthazar, but _loyal_ , wasn't one of them."

His smile was back to slime quality, not that it probably had any other setting. He withdrew a blade from his pinstriped sleeve slowly, and Dean suddenly found it weird that he'd never seen the angel with a weapon before. Definitely a boss, with minions to get their hands dirty for him. Definitely the kind you went postal on. Zachariah brandished the blade with the kind of bravado that said he'd only ever watched movies about combat. At least, that's the impression Dean would have if this guy was human.

"You'll regret coming for him. I've been looking forward to this moment for so long."

The blonde angel spared half a glance over his shoulder at his ex-boss like he couldn't care less, but Dean could feel the tension in his arm, could practically see it in his shoulders. There was something dangerous in Balthazar's eye that was at complete odds with the lazy grin on his face. Dean realized he might not get the chance to kill this douchebag himself; Balthazar was going to beat him to it.

"Oh, I promise you this, Zachariah: not as long as me."

But not today. Dean saw it coming. He slammed his eyes shut as Balthazar slammed his hand into the center of the blood symbol. Light ignited the room enough to turn Dean's vision blood-red through the back of his eyelids. Zachariah's scream ripped through the air, and the hunter decided it was a new favorite sound of his, followed by the not-so-awful silence signifying the bastard was gone. At least for now.

Balthazar peeled his hand off the wall and wrapped the bloody thing around Dean's bicep (damnit, he _liked_ this jacket). Then they weren't in the Green Room anymore. Dean stumbled as they touched down. It was night, it was cold, and the pavement was wet like it had recently rained.

God, Dean hated traveling Angel Air.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered as he doubled over, bracing his hands on his knees to work through the nausea. "Give a guy some warning."

"Oh, I'm sorry, was the 'I'm rescuing you from the angels who are playing you because you're a bloody moron' not enough warning? My bad. Truly, I'm terribly sorry _you've_ been inconvenienced."

Dean glared up at the angel, standing so haughty and cool. He groaned as he straightened, his stomach still cramping, but the hunter was nothing if not stubborn in the face of a fight. "What choice did I have, huh? Sam doesn't trust me; he chose a demon over his own brother. The angels were the only players left on the board that could stop the damn world from ending!"

To stop Sam from making the worst mistake of his life by having Dean make it first. Yeah, great plan.

"At the price of your life, you idiot, and it still would have cost half the bloody planet! And besides, since when do you play nice with angels?" Balthazar snorted, and it took a lot of the sting out that most of the disdain in his voice was actually directed at his own family and not Dean.

"Since the only one I trusted went missing for months!"

Well, _that_ shut the arrogant dick up. Balthazar stood, staring and blinking, and Dean thought, _'so there'_ with the petulant kind of harrumph of a five year old.

"Man, I didn't have a choice, alright?" Dean ran an aggravated hand through his hair, scrubbing at his scalp. He was so damn tired.

"You didn't have a _good_ choice," Balthazar corrected, though Dean could tell from the tilt in his voice that he was hedging. The hunter straightened, staring at the angel with wide, but hard eyes.

"You know something."

"I haven't been lying on a beach in Aruba sipping mojitos out of some pretty thing's navel these past few months, you know. As much as I may have wanted to." The sigh was as dramatic as the rest of the angel, and he cast his eyes heavenward at the clearly missed opportunity. He shrugged, but Dean could tell there was a tiny, little bit of pride in the angel for maybe having not run away after all of it. Regret, definitely, but just a sliver of pride. "I've been watching Heaven, who just so happens to be watching Hell. Who just so happen to be watching your brother."

"You know where Sam is going to be." Dean grabbed Balthazar's arm, and the angel's gaze dropped to the offending limb. The hunter didn't let go. "He's convinced he can kill Lilith on his own, and Ruby's pumping him up on friggin' demon blood, filling his head with shit."

"Oh, he's going to do a lot more than kill her," Balthazar pulled his arm free, but it seemed a far more tolerant gesture than Dean would have expected of the 'ew, humans are gross' angel. "It's so much worse than that; Heaven's going to _let_ him. That's the last seal, Dean, to unlock Lucifer's cage. Heaven's been lining it all up like a golden tee and we just entered the last round of put-put. The last lock is Lilith's _death_ , and Sam's probably rocking enough of the good stuff by now to pull it off."

Cold flooded Dean and, weirdly enough, of all the shit he should be worried about, all he could think of was how damn devastated Sammy was gonna be when he realized the truth. Damn it, he never should have let that kid out of his sight.

"We gotta go. We gotta go right now."

But Balthazar was already grabbing onto him, a parody of the grip Dean had held only a minute ago. The angel's eye roll and sarcastic, "You think?" were lost to the swirling vortex that was Angel Air.

-o-o-o-

They made it to the church in time to see Sam, standing in a room not two hundred feet away. His hand was outstretched and a figure in white was sprawled on the ground in front of him. Lilith – it had to be. Ruby was there too. She spotted them first, looking over her leather clad shoulder at them.

Dean started running the minute he saw that smirk spread across her features. God damn it, he knew she couldn't be trusted. She was a demon, after all.

The doors slammed shut long before he made it to them. Still, he didn't bother slowing down. He bodily rammed into the wood at full speed. The double doors shook under the impact, but his shoulder could attest to their heavy construction. Balthazar was slower to join, though at least he was jogging, leaving that stupid suave saunter behind for once.

"Move," the angel said, actually pushing Dean to the side on one of his rebounds. The human grunted, but if it got them into the room before Sam made the second worst mistake of his life – behind trusting that demon over his own brother – than he could well shut the hell up about it. Balthazar pressed the flat of his palm against the wood and closed his eyes.

Nothing happened.

The angel frowned, eyeing the door for a minute before he pushed harder, the physical bend in his elbow the only sign. Light leaked from beneath his palm, glowing through the edges of his human fingers in an eerie red.

Still, the door held.

"Come on, are you an angel, or what?" Dean glanced between the door and Balthazar, his biting sarcasm just about the only thing holding his very frazzled nerves and pounding adrenaline together right now. "Put your back into it!"

"She's Lucifer's first born. Give me a bleeding break!" Balthazar grunted but threw his shoulder into the door, palm still flat to it. Light flooded from both now, along with his eyes.

The wood began to creak and splinter beneath the angel's power. When it finally gave, Dean had to dive to the side as the explosion caused friendly fire and debris rained down in the corridor. Balthazar stumbled through the mess, the weight of his power and vessel taking him into the room along with the dissipating smoke and dust such a destructive entrance caused.

Dean passed by him without hesitation, bolting further into the room. But they were too late. Ruby was laughing, holding onto his brother's arms like some sick parody of congratulations. Sam wasn't moving. She turned to meet Dean head on, heedless of the blade – her blade – that he pulled from his back.

"You're too late!"

The fanatic celebration in her eyes made him want to kill her all the more. It certainly didn't slow Dean down as he crossed the room in a death march. "I don't care."

Sam, shaken and confused and so damn broken, didn't hesitate. He finally moved, grabbing onto her, pulling her flush against him so she was wide open for his brother to sink the weapon into her torso, straight up to the hilt.

She died with a gasp and orange light, and it was too damn easy an end for her.

Dean met his brother's eyes, and it was even worse than he'd already known it would be. Sam just stared at him, lips moving several times before words came out. "I'm sorry."

They didn't have time for it. He grabbed Sammy by the arm and started pulling him. But Sam was back to staring at the woman in white, covered in blood that was slowly but steadily pooling into a pattern that only spelled disaster for them. Dean tugged harder. "Sammy, let's go."

Balthazar managed his way to their sides, dusting off his clothing in the same moment he spotted the blood. "Well, bugger." The angel didn't hesitate, reaching out to place dual fingers against the Winchester's foreheads. Only nothing happened. When Dean opened his eyes, they were still in the church and still in a shit-ton of trouble. "Double bugger. That can't be good."

The pooling blood met in the middle and light broke through like a damn search beam. Dean shielded his eyes from it, but Sam couldn't seem to look away.

"Dean…he's coming."

"Okay, time to go." Balthazar grabbed the taller brother by the bicep and bodily hauled him back the way they'd come. The spell on the youngest Winchester finally broke as he was forced away from what he had done, and the three went for the door, _quickly_. What was left of it, of course, slammed shut right in their faces, trapping them in the room with the soon-to-be devil.

Sam and Dean exchanged looks. Balthazar threw all his power at the door, but it bounced off like a god damn BB gun against a giant. Even damaged, splintered to hell and gone, and one of the panels hanging on only a single hinge, the blasted things didn't budge. Didn't even shake on impact, and the gaps in the wood showing the hallway beyond were as impassible as the rest of it, like the whole thing was a god damn force field. As a high pitch ringing filled the room, Balthazar stepped back from the door and true fear crossed his face for the first time since Dean had met him. His sword, shinning brilliantly in the abundance of light, slipped into his hand.

Dean had the weirdest impression, for only a moment, of the angel using it on himself rather than facing what was coming. But then Balthazar was turning, face stormy, and put himself purposefully in front of the humans.

"Stay behind me."

The truth was, Balthazar had more than thought about it (he knew his odds against the _Devil_ , thank you very much), but he knew when he saw his brother again one day – and he would see him – that Castiel would wear a face of disappointment, not rejoice. And that just wasn't an acceptable option.

So. Fuck it.

He brandished his blade as the light grew too bright even for him, and the last lock on the cage blew open.


	5. Part V

_**Summary:** It took numbers to storm Hell. The whole of the Heavenly Host, dispatched for one righteous soul. Balthazar didn't think it was worth it - a suicide mission, in his opinion - but Castiel did. Too bad it wasn't Castiel who pulled the Righeous Man from Hell. It wasn't Castiel who raised Dean Winchester from perdition. It really should have been. Balthazar was a poor choice by anyone's standings, including his own._

 _ **Story Warnings:** Character death, depictions of violence, swearing_

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

 **Part V**

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Balthazar was packing. Or, well, he might as well have been. Dean was fairly certain if the guy owned a suitcase, he'd be packing it.

"Where the hell you gonna run, huh?" Dean was watching him from the other bed in the motel room they'd frantically and in no small amount of shock, gotten after the plane had emergency landed thirty miles from Ilchester, Maryland. The plane they'd magically, _mysteriously_ , been transported to seconds before the mother friggin' devil broke free.

Dean wasn't really ready to think about it yet. They still had to go back for the Impala, but even Dean didn't think that was a good idea just yet, despite how it killed him to leave his Baby behind temporarily.

Sam was at the little kitchenette, head buried in his laptop. Kid hadn't spoken much – or even met their eyes – since they landed, not that Dean blamed him. But soon he was going to have to. They were going to have to figure out a game plan.

But step one in that game plan was convincing their only chance of survival to stick around.

"Don't know, don't really care." The angel straightened from the last sigil, of which there were many. Their fake card was definitely getting charged for this mess. Hastily scribbled sigils covered just about every surface of every available wall. The last one had been on the nightstand, for Christ's sake. "I hear Bali is lovely this time of year."

"Balthazar, the friggin' world is gonna end if you don't help."

"What do you bloody call all this?!" The angel gestured around to the room, to the protective sigils, but Dean knew he meant more. He meant rescuing his ass from Heaven, taking him to Sam, _trying_ in the first place. "I bloody well helped, and all it's done is set my getaway plan back by, oh, just the end of the world."

"I call it running," Dean countered, not bothering to even hear the rest of the angel's rant. At the narrowed eyes that locked on him, the human lifted his chin and stood his ground. "Look, I appreciate you stopping along the way to pick me up – I owe you for the save – but you're running, clean and simple. You've been running since you pulled me out of hell. Right now, we need to _stay_. We need you to help us."

"You're insane." Balthazar tossed his arms out and full on laughed. "That's it. Lucifer knocked your head silly, because that's the only explanation for how _insane_ you sound. Boys, it's over. We tried. We failed. Welcome to the end of the world!"

"What about that promise to your brother? You wanna run so bad you're gonna just leave that behind in the dust?" Dean was right up in his face, now, and he knew, he _knew_ he was playing a dangerous game. The soft tapping of his brother's typing stopped, and he knew Sam was watching them warily. But Sam didn't know Balthazar like Dean did. Hadn't really gotten the chance. "You want to honor Castiel's death? Then earn it. Earn the right to run, to have that high life. Help us, Balthazar, and you can have your stupid lap of luxury for the rest of forever."

"You've got a pair, Winchester," the angel seethed, not backing off either so the two were entirely too close to each other. Like cats spitting, nose to nose. "To even say his name- I ought to kill you."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, I'm sure that'd go over real well in angel heaven, or wherever angels go when they die."

Balthazar ground his teeth, the weight of his brother's blade in his celestial hand, tucked away from the visible plane, but weighing on his soul heavier than anything physical could. The blade that meant his brother was not dead. Could not die. And certainly wasn't in Heaven.

"You're wrong about me," he bit out, but it was quiet. Dangerous. "Cassie was wrong about me. I'm no hero. So get off your soap box and stop preaching to me about heroics, Dean."

The frown on his human charge's face wasn't the one he was expecting. He anticipated anger, annoyance, another rousing speech that could have put Zachariah to sleep. But no, the human just looked at him like Balthazar just didn't get it, and that was probably worse.

"Stepping between me and my brother, and the _devil_ seems pretty damn heroic to me."

Balthazar paused, staring at the hunter. The words were ridiculous. The notion was ridiculous. Utter nonsense. Pure stupidity. But, good God, that was pretty much the dictionary definition of heroic.

Son of a bitch.

The angel made a low noise in the back of his throat, part growl, part frustration, wholly annoyed. His shoulders sagged as he stared back at Dean and knew that, somehow, Cassie had found the one human on the whole bloody planet that could _speech_ him into this.

Son. Of. A. Bitch.

Whelp, they were all dead anyway, it was only a matter of time. So really, how long would Balthazar have to reap the consequences of this wildly stupid decision?

-o-o-o-

Had he mentioned before how surprisingly resilient the Winchesters were? Like cockroaches, only they talked infinitely more and had even less to say.

It had been _months_ since Lucifer first broke free, and they were no closer to ending this. Whether through their own deaths (incredibly likely) or, you know, the end goal of stopping the devil (less likely). Somehow, all three of them had managed to survive the bleeding apocalypse so far, as Lucifer walked the Earth and Michael and his flunkies hounded Dean for his allegiance every chance they got. Balthazar had pulled some pretty sneaky tricks out of his bag of quickly depleting talents to keep them off their backs, but even he didn't have full proof getaways for _every_ situation Zachariah could come up with.

Sending Dean to the future, a particularly nasty variation filled with demon-virus zombies, was especially creative. Balthazar would have almost given the bastard props, if he didn't hate him so much and also had a reputation to maintain of finding everyone that wasn't himself absolutely intolerable and idiotic.

This latest endeavor, however, was something special. A whole other level of stupid, even for the Winchesters (which, apparently, Balthazar was now a reluctant member of). Unlike all their previous, absolutely suicidal ideas that they somehow scraped through by the skin of their teeth, this one really had potential to get them killed, more so than anything they'd come up with yet. The real kicker was that they hadn't even been the ones to come up with it. They were trusting a _demon_. Again. To save the world.

Yeah, nothing could possibly go wrong there.

The group – and they had become a _group_ , much to Balthazar's confused distaste – was in a town called Carthage in some puissant state in the middle of America. Not the angel's first choice. And they had a plan to kill the devil with a gun given to them by a demon. Not that Crowley was the worst of the species, as far as Balthazar had met. He, at least, had a decent sense of humor and an even better taste in hard liquor. Maybe not enough cause to trust him with the end of the world (or, more likely, their own lives), but at least if it was another demonic scam, it was better than their last approach.

Although the idea of Crowley trying to seduce Sam "the Moose" Winchester into, well, doing anything the demon asked, had Balthazar chuckling to himself for days.

Balthazar landed beside the Winchester's companion car – the boys in their monstrosity of male compensation and ego up ahead – and the two women they affiliated with climbed out as the angel slipped into the physical plane. He announced his presence with a pep in his step and a voice probably about three times louder than it actually needed to be. "Good morning, ladies!"

The younger of the two – the daughter, Jo – jumped at his sudden appearance, the movement tapering off into a groan as she rubbed at her temple with one hand, the other carrying a shotgun.

"Do you have to be so…" She gestured her hand at him in a vague wave. "You?"

The angel just grinned, shoving his hands into his pockets on a point of smug little pride. "Aw, does someone have a headache this morning?"

Jo groaned again miserably, but managed a squinty-eyed glare up at him.

"Maybe someone shouldn't have challenged an _angel_ to a drinking contest." He booped her right on the nose, which she swatted at fiercely, raising her shotgun as if to remind him she could in fact shoot his feathery ass. He just grinned.

"Maybe _someone_ should have mentioned they literally can't get drunk!" she growled right back. Her mother, who looked to be in a similar state of post-inebriation but covering it oh-so-much better, jerked her own shotgun at the two of them like a waving flag.

"Enough, you too. We got a job to do. Boys are waiting."

"Ah, about that." Balthazar straightened to his full height, turning to look at the buildings that surrounded them. There were reapers – dozens of them – standing on the rooftops, in the windows, on the street. Balthazar hadn't seen so many gathered in one place since, well, the Black Plague. And that had been a doozy of a soul-fest in terms of death toll.

He'd spotted them on his initial fly by, a scouting trip that was a better use of his time than driving in that dreaded, cramped, slow-moving misery the Winchester's called transportation. Of course, Dean had rather forbidden him from touching down on recon trips after that last one, where he'd barely made it back to the boys with both wings intact. That had been a tad messy. Took weeks to heal. But hey, he'd found the ambush before it had found the boys!

The look in Dean's eye when he tried to point out that particular gem of logic had been damn close to murderous, and if Balthazar wasn't busy trying to survive being verbally beat to death by his charge, he might have found the concerned fury touching.

So he'd been relegated – by a _human_ – to flybys only. Which meant he'd seen the gathering of reapers, but hadn't had a chance to look into why. Clearly, something big was about to happen; something that they expected would require mass transit of at least a hundred of souls, from the headcount of old farts he'd gotten so far.

Which meant Crowley's intel on Lucifer being in the area was probably spot on. Well, that was just _lovely_.

"There's something I need to check out. You lovely ladies meet up with our boys and I'll catch up later." Without waiting for a reply, which was cut off anyway by his sudden disappearance from the physical plane, he took off towards the closest building.

"You think he does that often?" Ellen finally asked, blinking at the space the angel had occupied less than five seconds before. She hefted her shotgun over her shoulder, annoyance flickering across her expression right alongside the killer hangover she was nursing alright.

"Well, Dean said he was kind of a dick," her daughter offered. Ellen just snorted. Jo gave her a side-eyed grin. "I like him."

The older of the two women heaved a massive sigh, matched only by the dramatic eye roll that went with it. "Joanna Beth, you are going to be the death of me one day."

The two headed down the deserted street, guns at the ready in the creepy feel of a ghost town, to meet up with the Winchesters.

-o-o-o-

In hindsight, Balthazar probably should have known it was a trap. I mean, a trail of reapers leading _right_ to a darkened room in a building on the outskirts of town where, say, a ragtag group of human rebels were be likely to approach? Yeah, he really should have known better.

The flames were _hot_ , darn it, and the ring of holy oil didn't leave a lot of room for stretching one's legs (as one was want to do when trapped in a ring of death awaiting their unpleasant end, likely at the hand of the devil himself). Worse, there was zero signal in the windowless room which, to be honest, Balthazar had to give _some_ credit to the demons for that. He doubted it would have occurred to Lucifer that an angel would ever be caught carrying something as human as a cell phone.

He'd still lobbed off five text messages to the Winchesters, each one more dramatic than the last. At least if they got them after he was gone, they'd know he went out in style.

He really didn't know when that had started mattering to him.

There was one demon in the room with him, a chittering little thing babbling away some nonsense about demonic paradise on earth. Honestly, Batlhazar wasn't even listening. She was so far below his paygrade that he couldn't have cared less. But the presence that filled the room just as she was starting to grow irritated with his disregard, well _that_ he did pay attention to.

Balthazar remembered his brother, the Morning Star, the pride of Heaven. He remembered what standing in the presence of Lucifer was like, and centuries of banishment had not done much to change that intimidating, intoxicating loom of power and confidence.

"Brother," Lucifer intoned, voice deep with an undercurrent of grace that turned Balthazar's stomach. Maybe he'd had a tad too much alcohol last night after all. "What an…interesting angel, you are."

"Cut the crap, you'd kill me where I stand if you didn't want something from me." Honestly, Castiel had been right. His mouth was going to get him killed. But, well…what was the point of stalling that inevitability? No way he was going to stand in front of the Fallen and play whatever game he'd concocted. Screw that little puissant. His _brother_ had made his choice a thousand years ago. And so had Balthazar. "So get to it already."

Lucifer's expression, a bland thing of mild interest, turned sour. He frowned at the angel trapped before him, clearly fearful and yet so full of blatant disregard as to be mildly _irritating_.

"You're awfully mouthy," he commented lazily, starting a slow circle around the caged angel, who didn't bother turning to keep him in sight. Fearful, maybe, but not without a pair of balls. Not bad. Perhaps worth the effort of turning, despite the attitude. "You've spent too much time with humans, clearly."

"Better company than you keep." Balthazar's eyes flickered to the demon girl standing with crossed arms and a fierce pout.

Lucifer just huffed, though it was clear he didn't exactly disagree. "Yet, you could be in Heaven, _home_ , with our brothers and sisters-"

"I'm sorry, I thought I mentioned you could cut the crap." Balthazar cast his 'brother' an utterly fake expression of innocence, like perhaps all they really had on their hands was an honest-to-Dad misunderstanding going on here. As if.

Lucifer's face dropped further.

"I see," he said, face turned like he'd sucked on a particularly awful lemon, and Balthazar wanted to tell him _'hardly'._ Lucifer resumed his slow circling. "So you stand against Heaven."

Balthazar rolled his eyes. God, it was like talking to a brick wall. "If you start trying to recruit me, I'm going to have to use the word crap three times in the span of a minute, and that's going to just _ruin_ my spick-span track record of insults and comebacks."

The Morning Star stopped, turning to Balthazar fully. The rise of his chest suggested he was attempting to breathe through the irritation. Good. If Balthazar was about to die, let him go out _annoying_ the bloody devil.

He wished he could reach his blade, but within the fire he couldn't access the ether, no matter how his hand twitched for the cold touch of celestial steel.

"Well. I see this conversation won't be very fruitful." Lucifer sighed, like Balthazar had crushed his hopes and dreams and was the pinnacle of disappointment to his 'big brother'. The weaker angel resisted miming a gag motion, but he did consider selling the whole thing to Hallmark for a pretty penny. "A shame."

"Absolutely. Total shame. Really, I'm heartbroken we couldn't reach an understanding on a truly heartfelt level." Balthazar placed his hand over where his human vessel's heart was. But it looked like Lucifer was done being annoyed. Instead of responding further, he simply crossed back to the only entrance in the room, pausing at the door.

"Perhaps, if you refuse to take me seriously, you'll treat a different brother with more respect."

Balthazar frowned – what brother? – but Lucifer passed through the doorway before he could ask (he totally wouldn't have asked. Maybe. Probably. Damnit). He couldn't mean Michael. Lucifer wouldn't leave him trapped until Heaven inevitably showed up, would he? Not that it ultimately mattered, he supposed. Both archangels would kill him on site. In fact, Michael might be more merciful about it.

That is, if they didn't manage to drag him back to Heaven for re-education.

Well, he supposed, it was possible if Lucifer left him for Michael to find that the Winchesters might pull of a rescue first. Once they realized he was in trouble. And _if_ Lucifer didn't get to them first.

Yeah, he was so dead.

A shadow fell across the doorway, and it wasn't so much caused by something crossing in front of a light as the sudden absence of light entirely. Not so much a visual change, though there certainly was one – the room definitely got darker – but no, this shadow was entirely in presence. Balthazar felt a very human shiver crawl up his spine.

Something – _not someone, some_ thing, _definitely a thing –_ stood in the doorway. A being shrouded in dark, barely perceptible, _writhing_ in black ichor. Balthazar almost choked on it, that cloying essence, whatever it was. It was evil, that was the only word he could think of for it. Tormented, twisted, misshapen, foul. It oozed misery and death, and Balthazar was backing away from the figure as it stepped further in the room.

Meg let out a garish giggle. "You're a goner now."

The thing stepped right up to the edge of the flames, feet dragging in its wake like it weight a metric ton, and the orange tongues of the fire lashed out at him angrily. Balthazar's breath caught in his chest as the flames reacted to the presence of an angel that wasn't him.

He stared in horror at the thing, blackness oozing out of every orifice of the borrowed human flesh, the skin an ashen grey, the human soul inside likely obliterated in the most painful of ways by the wretchedness of the _thing_ possessing him.

This was an angel. This _had_ _been_ an angel. It was so broken, so mangled, that Balthazar hadn't even recognize the twisted grace for what it was. Had the barrier of flame not pulsed, not fought back against the once-holy presence, however ruined it was now, Balthazar would have had no idea.

And then eyes so dark blue they bled black met his, and Balthazar caught a flash – an undercurrent – of a very different kind of blue. The breath stole from lungs he didn't even use, froze his feet to the hard concrete floor, and stopped the edges of a heart he would argue he didn't even have.

"Cassie?"


	6. Part VI

_**Summary:** It took numbers to storm Hell. The whole of the Heavenly Host, dispatched for one righteous soul. Balthazar didn't think it was worth it - a suicide mission, in his opinion - but Castiel did. Too bad it wasn't Castiel who pulled the Righeous Man from Hell. It wasn't Castiel who raised Dean Winchester from perdition. It really should have been. Balthazar was a poor choice by anyone's standings, including his own._

 ** _A/Ns:_** _Sorry for the delay. I did the same thing with this story that I did with Cohabitation: "there's only a couple more chapters left, I can post before I finish writing it." At least I'm an optimistic dumb butt :)_

 _ **Story Warnings:** Character death, depictions of violence, swearing_

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

 **Part VI**

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Dean tried calling Balthazar a dozen times, back to back to back. The bastard didn't answer a single one – possibly because every single one went straight to voicemail, no ringing, no passing go, no collecting his god damn magical angel healing – and his utterly infuriating voicemail was doing Dean no favors in the calm department.

"If you're looking for a good time, leave your number, love. If you're looking for drugs, leave your payment. If you're looking for next Tuesday's orgy, call my assistant, Dean Winchester, at 702-"

"God damn it!" The hunter chucked his cell across the aisle of the hardware store, taking what little he could from the clatter it made as it knocked several various sized screwdrivers clean off the rack.

"Still nothing?" Sam hesitated at the front of the aisle Dean was currently sequestered in, away from Jo where she couldn't see the heart-broken look on his face as her one and only chance remained utterly unreachable.

Dean didn't bother answering. He scooped up the useless mobile, shoved it in his pocket and pushed past his brother, who followed regardless.

"We're gonna put together a stretcher," he announced as he approached Ellen and Jo, fingers fisted at his side. He knew how hallow it sounded, how hopeless, but he refused to acknowledge it.

"Stop, guys. Stop," Jo whispered, looking up at them from sunken eyes in a face that had no right being that grey. Dean could hardly meet her eye, the truth there making him sick to his stomach. "Can we, uh, be realistic about this, please?"

Her eyes darted his way and Dean spun away, ripping his phone back out and calling his damn angel for the thirteenth time.

-o-o-o-

Balthazar stared at the thing in front of him. His brother. His _friend_.

Oh God, what had they done to him? The angel couldn't look away, but dear dad did he want to. The thing in front of him couldn't be Cas, it couldn't even be an angel. It took _centuries_ to turn an angel in Hell. Lucifer had done it to those who had been loyal to him, who had fallen with him. Lilith was the first human he had ever turned, but Drago had been the first of his angel brethren. Beezlebub and Azazel. All of the yellow eyed bastards, turned into the darkest of dark things that went bump in the night. The boogiemen of Hell, feared even by the most fearless of demons. Feared even by angels, who did not _know_ fear.

But it took years of corruption, deep in the pits.

Castiel had only been there for… for a century at most. Maybe two, if they'd dragged him as deep as they could, where time stretched the longest. And his brother- Cassie was the strongest of them all. If anyone could hold off for longer than anyone should ever respectfully be expected to, it was mother fucking _Castiel_.

But this- God, Balthazar couldn't tear his eyes away, and he wanted to claw them out of his skull for that. He could not believe it. He was horrified by it. What stood in front of him wasn't one of the Fallen. No, it was… violent. Twisted. Forced. There were only three things left in the universe outside of God himself who had the power to do _this_ to an angel. To tear at the edges, rip grace and flesh and remold it into…into this monster.

Lucifer had done this. And he'd been in a hurry.

Balthazar was going to be sick.

"What are you looking at, huh?" Never let it be said Balthazar did his best work when he was seconds away from hurling up his guts.

Castiel didn't answer. He didn't even respond. No, not Castiel. Not his brother. Dad, he could not afford to think of this as his friend. It would be better if his brother wasn't even in there at all, but that flash of blue…

Balthazar knew what he'd seen, and part of him, the part he tried to convince Dean Winchester every damn day was a coward, wished he hadn't.

Time passed. Each and every thing he could think to say - and granted, they were by far his most eloquent – was ignored by the thing that stood guard in front of him. Blackened eyes didn't even blink. The black ichor of its soul pulsed on occasion, enough that Balthazar started to get through to that, but it was clear he'd need _years_ of his most annoying material to even make a chink. He didn't have years. He needed to get out. And now, shit, he needed to get out _and_ somehow rescue his brother.

Great, like he hadn't had enough on his plate with just surviving the afternoon.

Eventually, Meg was called away by her master – sorry, _father_ (sure) – and Balthazar could hear the conversation beyond the door. He had no doubt as the topic turned to the Winchesters (pinned down in a hardware store, guarded by hellhounds) that the oversight was quite intentional on Lucifer's behalf.

Damnit, he needed out of here _yesterday._

Meg came back in after a heated argument where she just barely managed to stay reverent to her 'father'. But anger was fuming off her in waves, and Balthazar took some little speck of comfort in her utterly bitchy expression. At least she wouldn't be the one to finish the boys off. Small miracles, right?

"Lucifer wants you," she bit out to Castiel. The beast of black ooze and flat-out wrongness took several seconds too long to turn to her, and Balthazar could see just how much it pissed her off. But even Meg wasn't crazy enough to try her ire on a Fallen. Especially not one so broken that it was entirely questionable where his sanity, loyalties, intentions (take your pick) might lie.

Balthazar watched his brother turn and leave the room without a word, that sick ichor leaving a trail of wrongness behind him as he went.

Meg took up his place and Balthazar grinned something pretty. A regular old demon he could deal with.

"Wow. You gonna let her push you around like that?" he asked, gaze locked on the bitch but voice loud enough to carry to the door. His brother ( _not_ his brother) paused at the threshold. Balthazar whistled lowly. "You take orders from low-level scum, then. _You_?"

Blue eyes turned over a shoulder, and it took everything Balthazar had not to flinch. He managed to cover it with disdain – lucky for him, he had lots of practice with that one – and Castiel's eyes narrowed. The ballsy angel just shrugged.

"If I'd known one of the Fallen was such a pushover, I'd have invited you to dance in here with me, honeybuns."

Meg, eyes enraged and face turning an ugly red, looked between the two of them. "Shut up, you little piece of shit," she hissed at Balthazar, shaking a finger at him. The angel took great pleasure in the way she looked like she might explode. Fear was such a pretty color on a demon. Meg spit over her shoulder, "And you- don't even think about it. Get going."

Which was the wrong move. Even Balthazar could have told you that. Had been counting on it, actually. Blackened eyes narrowed further and- there it was. That flash of blue once more.

Meg grunted as power struck her back, shoving her clear across the flames and into Balthazar's waiting arms. Castiel was gone, stalking out the door with barely a look in their direction, but Balthazar didn't let that distract him. One thing at a time, he told himself. The angel gripped the demon's host painfully tight and slammed his palm down onto her head. Fear – so much less than the _thing_ had caused, but there nonetheless – lit her eyes.

But nothing happened.

"Balls," Balthazar muttered. He'd take it to his grave, though. Bobby Singer did not need the ego boost.

In his arms, Meg chortled. "What's wrong, Clarence? Can't get it up?"

"Ah well," he muttered sullenly. There was nothing else for it. "Guess there's still the human way."

He hooked his heel behind her knee and pulled. As she dropped to one leg with a grunt of surprise, he shoved her back. Her body sprawled clear across the fiery line as she hit the floor.

A little bridge, just for him.

Balthazar stepped gleefully onto her crotch, twisting his heel just a _touch_ (for vindictive reasons he didn't feel obligated to justify at all) and crossed the burning ring. He left her screams of agony and rage behind, immediately taking flight the second his wings cleared the flames.

It hurt like nothing else in his long life ever had, leaving his brother behind for a second time, but the Winchesters and their world had to come first. It's what Castiel would have done.

-o-o-o-

He found them on the outskirts of a massacre. Neither of the women were with them, and Balthazar didn't need to ask why. A flicker of remorse – such new, annoying emotions, these humans caused in him – washed over him but he stowed it. There'd be time to mourn (for all parties, human and angel alike) later.

The angel could feel the surges of power roiling in the mass grave just over the knoll. The spell pulled at the energy of the ground, shattering things both earthly and not, and threatening so much more than prisons formed from years of bloodshed. The presence of the reapers suddenly slid into place, and Balthazar realized the ritual Lucifer was completing.

Sweet baby Jesus balls, they had to get out of there _now_.

He tapped Sam on the shoulder and wrapped a hand around Dean's mouth at the same time the human garbled out a surprised cry. Once he had their attention, Balthazar tapped a finger to his lips. Sam's expression was shattered, but there was a glimmer of broken hope – salvation that they needed but he could tell neither brother actually wanted – and Balthazar nodded.

Yeah, he got that better than he ever thought he would.

He released Dean's mouth, the hunter glaring at him but behind that festering anger was the same damn hurt. Balthazar settled a hand on either men's shoulder and prepared for flight. But then he did a damn fool thing. He checked to make sure Lucifer hadn't noticed his arrival, made sure the devil wouldn't follow their escape.

And saw Castiel.

Not Castiel. The Fallen.

Neither archangel or _other_ had spotted him, standing on the rim of the pitch, overflowing with bodies. They could escape this place. Get away. Another miracle that not a one of them had ever thought they'd get.

Balthazar didn't move. Couldn't. Couldn't take his eyes off his brother.

Not his brother.

"Balth!" Dean hissed, hushed voice cracking, and Sam shook his elbow.

The angel took a deep breath, his borrowed chest aching as it filled with too much air, and then he whisked them into the ether.

He could feel two pairs of eyes on him as he fled.

-o-o-o-

They landed hard, but then again, precaution wasn't exactly on Balthazar's mind at that moment. The Winchesters hit the ground and rolled, and the angel gave them a once over that was just long enough to make sure they were undamaged before he readied himself for a launch back into the ether.

Dean's desperate hand around his bicep stopped him.

"Let go of me, Dean."

The hunter did no such thing, the brat.

"Where are you going?"

"Back, now _back off_."

Dean blinked in surprise, his grip faltering for a second before it tightened all the more. Cut off from Heaven as Balthazar was, the hunter could probably contain him now if he chose to get creative. But finger fingers on his arm was hardly that.

"You're insane," Dean accused, eyes thin with an anger Balthazar knew had nothing to do with him but would be taken out on him regardless. He knew Dean too well. Really, they were far too similar for his taste.

He ripped his arm out of the human's grip. "That was Castiel back there. Lucifer has _Cassie._ I'm going back."

Climbing to his feet beside them, Sam gawped at the admission. Dean was too shocked to say anything at all. They'd seen the thing that had shown up by the devil's side at William Jasper's farm. There'd hardly been enough time to process any of the horrors of the day, but Sam had known the second he'd seen that dark, looming, inhuman thing that he'd be having nightmares about it for weeks.

Just thinking about it made his hands tremble. Or maybe that had been Lucifer himself, standing so casually at the edge of death and destruction. Sitting up with a bullet between his eyes and not a care in the world. Holding out a hand to stop that _thing_ beside him as it started towards the brothers, slow and weighted, like it knew it didn't need to run to catch them.

Sam wrung his hands hard enough to hurt first and hide that minute shake second.

"Your brother?" the younger Winchester asked hesitantly. Balthazar ignored the tic of annoyance that flared within him. Clearly Dean had been telling bed time stories about the angel who'd pulled him out of hell. Sam glanced at the brother in question, but Dean was watching Balthazar with narrowed eyes. "I thought- we thought he died in Hell."

"Nothing can kill an angel but another angel." The admission was quiet. Angry. Bitter. It matched the cut of steal that slid into his hand from his sleeve. Sam stepped back on instinct, but Dean didn't even flinch. Like he had nothing to fear from a brooding, homicidal angel. Damn him. Well, the younger Winchester always had been the smart one.

Dean glanced down at that blade, dull and lifeless. Castiel's blade. The only thing that could kill an angel, left behind in Hell. Pieces started fitting together, and Dean wanted to swear. Damnit, he had his own grief and pain to deal with right now, he hardly had any room left for an angelic breakdown.

But Balthazar, annoying as he was, was his friend. He drew in a deep breath.

"That's not your brother anymore, Balth."

He'd seen that thing just as much as his brother had and he'd known what he saw. He knew firsthand what Hell did to you. If it had ever been an angel before, it certainly wasn't one now.

Despite the soft words, way too caring coming from that caustic mouth, Balthazar spun on them, radiating fury and, more than anything else, blatant fear. "So when Lucifer finally gets his hands on your brother and rides him around like a limousine on prom night, you gonna tell me that's not your brother anymore? He's not worth fighting for?"

Dean flinched violently enough to snap his mouth shut, and Sam stepped between them ever so slightly. Balthazar ignored how that annoyed him too. How these two brothers could protect each other, but were holding him back from doing the same for his own.

"Okay, point taken," Sam surprises him by conceding, one hand holding Dean back by the shoulder, the other raised placatingly in the angel's direction. "But let's _think_ about this, alright? Going back to that place right now is just going to get us killed."

"'Us'?" Balthazar baulked.

"Yes, _us_ ," Dean snapped back just as scathingly. Sam shoved him back another inch and gestured his free hand towards Balthazar in as clear warning that he'd do the same to the damn angel too. Balthazar backed off, biting and snapping at that little piece inside of himself that was actually warmed by their behavior.

He didn't have time for bloody human emotions right now, for Christ's sake

"Guys," Sam admonished, patience clearly thinning. This had been one hell of a trying, miserable, tragic day for _all_ of them. When Dean looked like he wasn't going to snap back, the younger Winchester turned those puppy brown eyes on Balthazar. "Let us help. We want to help. If you think- if you think Castiel is still… in- in there, then we'll find a way to get him. But we need a _plan_. And marching right back to Carthage sure as hell isn't one."

They also needed to let Bobby know they'd made it out alive.

Well. Some of them.

Sam swallowed the pain and lowered his arms away from his brother and the angel they were desperately starting to think of as a friend. What they needed was respite – time to lick their wounds, to mourn and find the ground beneath their feet again. To figure out what Death's raising meant for the planet, and what they could do in terms of limiting collateral damage.

It sounded never ending, is what it did. And Sam was wretchedly certain that without Balthazar, they just couldn't do it. Dean wouldn't push through the death of another friend, and Sam was pretty sure without the angel on their side they didn't stand a chance.

As if reading his thoughts, which he probably could but didn't seem the type, Balthazar sighed and all the fight went out with that breath of air.

"Right," he muttered miserably. He'd known, logically, that marching back into that city after Death's raising, right into Lucifer's hands, going after a brother who'd likely kill him with his own hands, was suicide. He just hadn't cared.

But, unfortunately for him, the Winchester's apparently did. While Balthazar had no friggin' clue how to deal with that, he had a promise to Castiel to keep. He could hold off slapping Dean Winchester silly until his brother was around to see what a pain in the ass he'd saddled Balthazar with.

Maybe Cas would even help him bury the bodies. Once they got him back.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

 _ **A/N** s: Shameless personal plug here for a minute guys! I have had two days of really frustrating news delivered back to back and could use some cheering up if anyone has cheer to spare. Don't feel obligated, of course, but I could use some encouragement if you don't mind taking a minute to brighten my day. It would be greatly appreciated!_


	7. Part VII

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

 **Part VII**

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

They'd done it. Balthazar still couldn't believe they'd done it – couldn't believe they were all still alive, really – but they were and they had. They'd captured Castiel.

It hadn't been the best laid plan, or the smartest. Nothing since the apocalypse had started was, truly. In fact, it had been entirely crazy and damn near suicidal, but that's a Winchester-Singer plan for you, right there. And probably the only reason it had worked.

They'd started by modifying Balthazar's angel-banishing sigil, since he'd been unsure if Cassie was even angel enough to be affected by it any more. But it was the only ward Balthazar knew that would be strong enough to work on a Fallen, assuming he was still angel enough to start with. Sam and Bobby had done the hard work modifying it (well, Sam mostly did the hard, hard work, given Bobby was stuck in a wheel chair with no few things to say about that or the angel that couldn't fix it), with Balthazar commenting here and there over their shoulders. He'd never been good with warding and sigilship. Castiel had always been the better student there (and too much of a sucker to stop Balthazar from cheating off him)

Then Bobby and Balthazar had teamed up (with mixed results, though Bobby seemed to eventually get over the fact it wasn't the fallen angel's fault he couldn't do shit to heal him, even if he wasn't _happy_ about it) to create a container to hold him, a cage of sorts, for the poor sucker to bounce around inside like a damn pinball machine once the sigil went off.

Knock him off his feet, right into a box made just for him.

"Like a supernatural faraday cage," Sam had said in awe once they'd finished, stepping back from the cylinder of metal and mesh, iron-wrought and carved with all manner of warding. Not so unlike the panic room, only designed to keep things in. Sam's eyes had been positively delighted and racing with that super-powered brain just behind as he looked at the walls designed to disperse supernatural energy. "Bobby, you're a genius."

"Oi, I helped too, you know," Balthazar counted, feigning hurt and grumbling while Bobby shrugged, for once not digging into the angel with more anger than actual gruff (Dean was glad the two were finally getting somewhere).

"If it works, I'll take the compliment."

"If it doesn't, we're all dead," the angel offered helpfully, _now_ getting that death glare from the gruff, old hunter. "So you won't be around to feel insulted by your failure."

"Why are you here, again?" Dean shoved him aside, palm already pooling with blood from the fresh slice to his forearm. He started painting the modified banishing sigil on the outside door of the cage.

Balthazar dipped his finger in the puddle of red – much to Dean's disgust – to dot the 'i's and cross the 't's of Dean's finger painting project. He grinned at his human charge, all teeth and not a shred of mirth in the slightest.

"I'm the bait."

And he had been. He was a little too good at it, turned out. Castiel showed up, and once Balthazar got his good taunts going, the Fallen had gone straight for him. (Actually, they'd hidden everyone else out of sight because Balthazar was pretty sure Sam would be the go-to, were he spotted, and Dean could run his mouth just as well as the angel. If they were gonna make this work, Balthazar really didn't need competition for most annoying thing in need of killing right that very second if just to make it stop talking.)

His exit strategy needed work, though. Granted, it was the least thought-out part of the plan, but that might have been the bit that needed working on. It took all four of them to back Castiel towards the cage, and Balthazar tackling him to get him into it. To get them both into it. Yeah, he really should have thought through that exit plan.

"Do it!" he screamed, his brother clawing at him without so much as a grunt or exhalation. Castiel had always been the quiet type, but this was borderline ridiculous. He rolled them, hooking his legs around Cassie's torso and going for a chokehold that seemed to have absolutely no effect.

"Are you insane?!"

He heard the cage door slam, so at least Castiel wasn't escaping anytime soon. Not that metal, even warded seven ways from Sunday, would hold up long against a Fallen after he murderized Balthazar and set sights on an exit strategy of his own.

Which, as Balthazar was thrown off him and slammed into the wall, the cage rattling dangerous and whole thing tipping tellingly, wasn't going to be far off in the future. The angel grasped his brother's arm as it closed around his throat, the other fisting Castiel's ragged clothing (was that a trenchcoat he was wearing under all that inky darkness (on that note, also, ew, gross, Balthazar was now spattered and smeared in the stuff. He so needed a long, hot shower. Maybe a Jacuzzi in the Swiss Alps with a couple of swimsuit models). But back to the point; a trenchcoat? Really? God, his brother's choice in vessel was about as good as his choice in….well, anything, actually.

But back to that other point, where Balthazar was struggling to breathe through his not-brother's crushing grip.

"Just….do….it….moron!"

He could practically feel Dean's hesitation (and annoyance, which he decided was clearly the more important of the mushy human feelings happening here). If his own twisted, evil, broken brother (not his brother) wasn't trying to squeeze the grace out of him like a tube of toothpaste, where the tube was his larynx in this lovely metaphor, he'd remind Dean what was at stake here.

In and amid every synonym for 'idiot' that he could think of.

Light exploded across his vision, he thought 'finally, you dumbass', and then experienced just what it was like to be a pinball in an overactive arcade machine whose difficulty level had been set to 'so damn hard it'll make your mama cry.'

And then, thank dad, he passed the fuck out.

-o-o-o-

The thing masquerading as Castiel hadn't said a word since he'd woken up tied very securely to a chair in the center of a cleared-out panic room in Bobby Singer's basement. He hadn't even blinked.

"Think his eyes are getting all dry and itchy?"

Dean leaned against the closed door to the panic room, glancing through the small opening at the Fallen bound within. Balthazar had his back to it, cold and rusted iron a cold comfort. He hadn't looked inside since he'd locked the last chain and manacle around what had once been his brother.

"Angels don't need to blink, Dean." His voice was dry, going for humor but missing by a mile because his heart just wasn't in it. "Do not make the mistake of thinking what's in there is a man."

Dean grumbled under his breath – he wasn't stupid, darn it – but didn't speak to Balthazar again. He knew what the angel was going through, better than anyone. He'd locked his own brother inside these walls once, too, after all. He hadn't wanted to talk much then, either. Casting one last glance at their silent prisoner, Dean pushed off the walls of the panic room and headed for the basement stairs. Neither he nor his angel were men of words, they liked their actions best. So Dean let his departure speak of his support and understanding.

Balthazar waited until the basement door shut behind his human charge. Then another ten minutes just to make sure neither Sam nor Dean intended to return. And then he waited another eight because he was a damn coward.

The door to the panic room moaned something awful when he did eventually open it. Castiel's head tilted ever so slightly to the side, blue-black eyes tracking his movement as he entered the prison. They lowered from his gaze to the weapon he gripped tightly – too tightly – in one hand.

Castiel's blade. It remained dull and lifeless. Balthazar sought to change that. If there was anything left of his brother within the black ichor of this monster, the angelic steal would reignite and shine true as it found its owner's grace.

It took another several minutes of staring down his brother, the Fallen, before Balthazar could face knowing that answer.

Castiel's eyes were locked on his, his head tilted curiously to the side, watching in silence as Balthazar placed the flat of the blade to his neck. The sword did not light. The celestial alloy remained dull, no grace left within the twisted beast of darkness and death for the blade to recognize.

His brother was gone.

-o-o-o-

"We should kill him," Dean offered, quietly. Like a condolence, even if the words were anything but. Balthazar wanted to be angry, but he didn't feel much of anything, really. Dean wasn't wrong. It would be a mercy killing. Nothing so utterly wretched and perverse had any right to walk the earth, and surely no desire to continue living. They'd be doing Castiel a favor, putting him out of his misery, and sparing the rest of the world the wrongness of his existence and the wrath of what he'd become.

Hell, if there had been anything left of his brother in there, Balthazar knew what he'd have said. He'd have insisted it. Ordered it. And gotten his way the minute he turned his stupid self-inflated sense of nobility and justice on Balthazar. Just like he always did.

"Balthazar." Sam's voice nudged him back to the present, where he had absolutely no desire to be. It seemed he'd checked out for some unforgivable amount of time, given the silent looks the humans were exchanging. "We need to decide what to do."

The tip of his brother's blade was still sharp in his hand, and he ran the edge across his borrowed finger. Even a dull celestial sword would kill an angel. Kill a Fallen.

"You don't have to be the one to do it," Dean offered again. Another condolence. Balthazar let out a bitter snort and laughed at the peace offering.

"And you're going to do it, I suppose? Kill a Fallen?" He pushed to his feet, crossing Bobby Singer's living room to shove at Dean's shoulder. The human took it with a grunt, anger retaliating in his eyes, but he held back. He knew the angel was itching for a fight. They really were too damn similar. A humorless grin stretched across Balthazar's face as he lifted his brother's dull blade. "I already killed him once, Dean. I let him fall. What's a second attempt at murder, just between brothers?"

The room went quiet. The kind of quiet where you know you've said too much, but it's too late to take it back and to hell with that anyway, you're too damn angry to, even if you could.

"You didn't murder him, Balthazar." Sam's words were kind. Forgiving of a crime he had no right to forgive. Balthazar didn't want to hear them. Didn't need them.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I hadn't realized you were there," he bit out, caustically, as he spun on the younger Winchester. "You'd think I'd remember seeing a scrawny beanstalk in the middle of a Hell battle. You weren't there, you don't know what happened."

"Yeah," Dean shoved back at Balthazar, catching him in the shoulder and forcing him off balance. He crowded his space. "Well I was."

The angel loomed, hurt fierce in his eyes like rage. But Dean knew this move. He was the one who wrote the damn playbook. "You don't remember crap."

"I know your brother gave his life to save mine." Dean slapped his palm against his own arm, where a hand-print shaped scar remained, fresh as the day he'd clawed his way out of his own grave. "So you wanna talk who got him killed the first time, I friggin' did!"

Beside him, Sam fidgeted. "Dean-"

"Not just Cas, either, I bet," he continued, heedless of his brother's attempts to assuage a guilt he'd carried for two years now. "How many angels died rescuing my ass from Hell, Balthazar? Huh?"

Dean pushed at Balthazar's chest, shoving the angel back another step. "We've all got a cross to bear, so you can take your pity party and shove it!"

Anger bit at Balthazar's tongue and he clenched his teeth around it, shoving the human back in return. "Now listen hear, you daring, witless little worm. My brother died giving you that bloody mark, and you're going to respect that, or I'll-"

Balthazar's words were cut off by a flash of light. He'd slapped the flat of Castiel's blade against that damn handprint, a move meant to smart both emotionally and physically. It didn't do much of either as light flared between them like a gas lantern burning through an air gap. Balthazar stumbled back in shock, staring at the glowing blade in his hand. The silver-white metal faded back to dull grey, leaving the four of them staring at the weapon in silent shock.

"What the hell-"

Dean didn't get to finish, as Balthazar pressed the blade to his arm again before he could back away. The sword immediately lit with life once more.

"Holy shit." Balthazar, eyes wide, glanced between the glowing metal and Dean's equally wide eyes.

The celestial alloy faded once more as the angel lowered the sword from Dean's arm.

"What the hell was that?" Bobby asked, his normal gruff even more growly with surprise and confusion.

Balthazar just stared at the blade in his hand, warmer in his grip than it had been for two years now. When he looked back up at his human charges, his three friends, he could hardly speak through his own surprise – his own disbelief. "Grace."

Maybe, just maybe, enough to save his brother.


	8. Part VIII

_**Summary:** It took numbers to storm Hell. The whole of the Heavenly Host, dispatched for one righteous soul. Balthazar didn't think it was worth it - a suicide mission, in his opinion - but Castiel did. Too bad it wasn't Castiel who pulled the Righeous Man from Hell. It wasn't Castiel who raised Dean Winchester from perdition. It really should have been. Balthazar was a poor choice by anyone's standings, including his own._

 ** _A/Ns:_** _I realized I had a chapter of this story hanging out on my computer too! For those following The Road So Far (This Time Around), I did not have time to finish and edit a chapter before this weekend, but I did have time to polish some Deleted Scenes and other stories (like this one). Hopefully this can be a little treat for you guys amid the three very long weeks without new TRSF content. A new chapter will be coming soon, as I have successfully moved and now have plenty of time on my hands for writing :D_

 _ **Story Warnings:** Character death, depictions of violence, swearing_

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

 **Part VIII**

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

"What the hell do you mean, we can save him?" Dean grabbed Balthazar's arm, forcing the angel to face them and stop his excited, agitated pacing. "Balth…that thing down there…"

"It ain't saveable," Bobby chimed in, saying what Dean was too hesitant to. The older hunter got it, that monster down there, that _thing_ , had once been the angel's brother. According to Dean, the only one Balthazar had ever really given a shit about, which probably meant he was something else.

Well. Had been something else.

"Petulant, worthless, little _worms_ shouldn't talk about things they don't understand," Balthazar snapped back, sounding as close to homicide as they'd ever heard him, at least directed their way. Dean knew him too well, though. He knew the angel was angry and scared.

"Okay, let's just…everyone calm down." Sam, ever the mediator, had his hands up in the middle of them all, brown eyes taking each potential combatant (and family) in one at a time. That gaze stopped once it reached the fuming angel. "Balthazar…just, take it from the top, yeah? You- you think we can save Castiel. How?"

Balthazar stared at the humans, still furious, before he finally sagged in defeat. No, not defeat: resignation. He was utterly, completely resigned to caring about these stupid, petulant little worms, as he'd called them, and they damn well knew it. Worse, they seemed to care right back. Balthazar wanted to claw his skin off to get to that stupid warm, fuzzy feeling just beneath it and fling it as far away from him as possible. Bastard humans with their emotions and their loyalty.

"There's grace in Dean's arm," he said instead of any of that. He gestured to the mark on the Righteous Man's arm, his brother's handprint permanently seared into skin and soul. Castiel had left them a beacon to follow, and Balthazar planned to do just that. To the end of the world, and all that jazz. "Maybe enough to bring Cassie back."

"You said that already." Dean crossed his arms across his chest, self-conscience about the thing slapped on his bicep that everyone kept staring at. He was even less comfortable with the idea that some angel had stowed friggin' _grace_ in his arm without his knowhow. " _How_?"

The angel held back the urge to sneer. Humans. They thought they knew everything and therefore what they didn't know must not be possible.

"Grace is regenerative," Balthazar started as calmly as he possibly could given all his frustration, impatience, murderous rage, and quivering fear that none of this would work and all this hope of his was for not. He gestured one hand out and about with his words, a nervous habit, while the other still gripped Cassie's dull blade. He hadn't lit it again since that second time. His third attempt had been met with some serious opposition from the human who was sick of his arm being used like a battery. Which was fair. Selfish and juvenile, but fair. "It can be regrown from the smallest splinter."

Like the splinter shoved deep into Dean's arm (well, his soul, actually, but as his body didn't know how to interpret it any other way than a scar on his arm, might as well embrace the limited viewpoint of the majority of the room). Cassie must have split his grace, shattered off a piece of it down in the depths to mark a Righteous Soul in Hell.

Balthazar had always assumed the scar was nothing more than a Beacon, a little bit of power wrapped around the soul so it would be trackable should it be lost to Hell before the angels could get it topside. To be honest, he hadn't looked for anything more. Balthazar hadn't even wanted to see that mark, the last action of a dear friend.

Now, though….it was so much more. It was Cassie's last hope. The angel hadn't just wrapped Dean's soul in some of his energy, which would have eventually faded without the rest of his power to refresh it. No, he'd managed to fuse an actual sliver of his grace _into_ the mark he left on that soul. The human would always carry that bit of angelic grace within him. It would never fade, never dissipate. Dean would never again be touched by the creatures of Hell, no matter what the future brought. They'd literally burn up trying to. Dean Winchester was saved from the Pit and would be forever.

' _Cassie, you self-sacrificing, kind-hearted son of a bitch_.'

"What's down in the panic room isn't Cassie," Balthazar continued, sending one hell of a look Bobby's way, but the older hunter wasn't fazed. He'd gotten quite used to _Feather's_ charming personality over the several months he'd been with Bobby's boys. "But it can be again. His grace has been completely corrupted, but the process…maybe it can be reversed. If we had enough pure, untainted grace to grow from."

The pointed look the angel sent to Dean – more specifically to Dean's arm – made the hunter shift uncomfortably.

"And…you think we have enough?" Sam hazarded cautiously, sending his brother a look that reminded him to stay calm. No one was making any decisions yet or taking sides. They were just getting all the information out on the table.

"That's a sliver of pure grace in there." Balthazar pointed at Dean's mark with Castiel's blade, and the hunter narrowed his eyes at him, irritated with being treated like a piece of meat conveniently carrying a lifesaver. "It'll be enough."

It had to be. Angels were made from grace and grace was eternal. It could not be extinguished, so long as even the smallest remained. It would reform, regrow. Divine energy – pureness in every sense of the word – was far stronger than any evil Lucifer – or any other demon or devil for that sake – could ever create with hatred and envy and darkness. It would take over. Cleanse, purify, devour and beat back the taint that covered the angel in a blanket of black. It would grow anew.

There might be nothing left of his brother's grace in that _thing_ in the basement…but there could be again. They could get Cassie back, with this.

Balthazar crossed the room in three long-legged strides. Sam tried to step in front of him, to stop him, but he pushed right past the six and a half foot giant who was still only human. Dean backed up two steps at the sight of a furiously focused angel – his angel, his (reluctant) _friend_ – as Balthazar came right into his personal space and spread his hand across that mark.

It wasn't a perfect match – Balthazar's hand was smaller than that blistered scar across his bicep – but Dean still shivered and hated himself for it. But what the human misinterpreted as girly feels and a _'moment_ ' (oh, the horror) was actually a tiny bit of Castiel reuniting with an old friend. A dearly missed friend. Balthazar could feel him there. He could _feel_ his brother's presence, just beneath his fingers.

Dear Dad, how had he never noticed before? Why hadn't he tried?

Dean broke the moment with a light gasp, nothing more than parted lips and an intake of air, but it was enough. Balthazar stepped back, leaving a winded human with a spinning head, a pounding heart, and tears in his eyes.

"What was that?" Dean asked, voice cracking halfway through. He had to clear his throat, cough, and try again. There'd been a warmth in him, focused in his arm but it quickly spread until it encompassed all of him. It reminded him of his mother's hugs, so vividly that it was like Mary was with him now, arms wrapped around his small body, whispering in his ear that angels would always be watching over him.

She'd always given the best hugs.

Dean shook himself, wanting nothing more than to stay with that warmth, to trust it and never feel cold again. But he didn't trust it. Wasn't sure he should. Wasn't even sure it was real. Worse, he definitely didn't think he deserved it if it was.

"What the hell, Balthazar?"

"Angels are grace, Dean." The blond angel answered with a sigh, finally letting some of that grief that had been eating away at his core come through his vessel's face. "That was Castiel."

Sam and Bobby exchanged a look, but it was ultimately Dean's decision. He straightened, had to clear his throat a second time, but nodded at his angel.

"Okay," Dean said, casting a quick glance at his brother. He wished Sam could have experienced whatever that had been. Even if it wasn't real. Wasn't…whatever it was. It had still been the damn best Dean had felt in an entire year. Since before the Pit.

If that was what an angel was – pure and untainted ( _happiness_ ) – than he was with Balthazar. That thing in the basement didn't stand a chance.

"Let's do this."

-o-o-o-

Cassie – the thing that was Cassie – was silent. He – it – didn't even protest as the hunters spread out around him in a circle (they'd had to carry Bobby down, and it was a pain in the ass, but the hunter had insisted he wasn't being left out of this hunt ('My brother is _not_ a hunt,' Balthazar had snapped) in his own damn house). The Fallen sat, chained, in the middle of the panic room, regarding them with unmoved, unchanged black eyes, wrapped in a pit of darkness. It dripped to the floor like black ooze. There was a puddle beneath him, slowly growing with every gross, wet _plop_.

Dean glanced at Balthazar, standing to his right, but the angel's eyes were on his brother. With a deep breath, Balth reached out and pressed two fingers to Castiel's forehead, the black slick that leaked from his pours smearing beneath the angel's hand. The pads of his fingers were coated in it, and Dean had to force back the automatic gag reflex.

 _'Mom's hugs_ ,' he reminded himself. _'Think about Mom's hugs._ '

Mary Winchester's hugs had beaten back even the scariest of things that went bump in the night. At least as a four year old Dean remembered it. If an angel's pure grace, even a sliver, was anything remotely close to his mom's hugs, that black slime was toast, no matter how unnerving and repulsive it may be.

Balthazar turned to Dean and the hunter straightened, pushing all his thoughts (mostly the doubts) as deep down as possible. The hunter cleared his throat again, the damn thing still clogged with emotion from upstairs, and rolled up the sleeve of his t-shirt.

The Fallen's black, black eyes tracked the movement, settling on the mark burned into his arm. The black ichor bubbled and shifted on his skin, though his face never changed. Dean flinched but hid it well. Behind the creature, Bobby tightened his grip on his shotgun. Lot of good it would do them. Sam, on the other hand, glanced nervously between the angel blade in his hand and the not-quite-angel sitting in the chair.

Balthazar had handed it to him with the kind of look that said if he lost it or did anything without his permission, Sam would find himself with a one-way ticket to his own personal hell. The human had just nodded, both nervous and deadly serious, and taken Balthazar's blade.

Dean had Castiel's, gripped in branded arm. It would still kill an angel – or a Fallen – Balthazar assured him, though Sam was obviously their primary defense in that category.

"Oh," Balthazar started up his English lilt with a bland, mirthless smile as he curled those long, thin fingers around Dean's bicep, matching finger to fingerprint. He met his charge's green eyes. "This is going to hurt, by the way."

"Wait, what-?"

Light flared between their pressed skin and Dean found himself down on one knee, gritting his teeth against the pain. It was like Hellfire only brighter, searing from every line of that blasted mark until it all bled together and his entire arm was just on fire.

"Now you tell me," he gritted out, glaring up at his angel, but Balthazar had turned back to Castiel. His eyes were fierce, glowing with the same blue-white light that flickered and flared between the edges of their joined hand and arm.

Then Balthazar started chanting, the pain got worse – the fire burning brighter, whiter – and Dean was no longer capable of human speech.

The Fallen did not make a sound. Bobby shouted, Sam yelled for his brother, Balthazar's chanting grew to the point where he was yelling at the top of his lungs, but Castiel never made a sound. He just watched the angel with a pitch black gaze, past the fingers pressed to his forehead, past the black that bubbled on his skin. That ooze reached out and latched onto Balth's fingertips, wrapped around his skin, enveloped his hand, crawled up and up and up his flesh until it was almost entirely around his arm.

Balthazar never faltered. He channeled his brother's grace through his own, pulled every last bit of that sliver, millimeter by millimeter, out of his human charge and shoved it straight into the Fallen. The ichor protested more than the angel (not an angel) behind it ever did. It attacked his vessel, fought to feed off his grace, to find the pours and holes and openings of his human body and sink into vulnerable flesh. Balthazar didn't let it.

Then the light between Dean's arm and his clamped fingers flared with a final, brilliant burst. The human collapsed on the ground, shaking and grunting past a jaw clenched tighter than a tetanus reaction. Sam cried out for his brother, fear in his voice, but he didn't move. Balthazar slapped his now freed hand, a sliver of pure, brilliant, blinding grace in his palm, straight to Castiel's chest.

The Fallen screamed, throwing his head back, tossing himself side to side to be free of that purity, but Balthazar held on. The poor thing his brother was possessing would have fingerprints bruised into his head when this was all over, but Balthazar refused to let go.

It grew, becoming a brilliant, blinding spotlight screaming out of the Fallen angel's torso. The walls began to ring with it, the roof shook. An iron support bar fell from the ceiling, clanging to the ground and causing the hunters to jump. Bobby trained his shotgun on Castiel, but didn't know whether or not to fire. Balthazar couldn't stop the spell – still casting at the top of his lungs in Enochian – long enough to tell the human to stand down. If he stopped, he would not get the opportunity to start again. The light grew to the point where the humans had to turn away or risk blindness. Even Balthazar had to look away or risk damage to his vessel.

Then the light exploded, throwing all four of them away from the Fallen, and the panic room was cast into darkness.

-o-o-o-

When Balthazar scrambled back to his feet – Sam fishing out his phone to get a flashlight going, Bobby wheeling around to check on Dean, still curled up in the fetal position on the panic room floor – Cassie looked the exact same. A dark, ichor-wrapped monster chained to a chair in a room of iron.

Then blue eyes cracked open and Balthazar breathed for the first time in what felt like years. The first time since he and his brothers had charged Hell looking for a Righteous Man's soul.

"Balthazar?" Those blue, blue eyes, like the slivers of color that had always run through Castiel's grace, were confused. His brother was clearly not lucid as he tried, and failed, to focus his gaze on Balthazar.

The angel scrambled to his kin, cupping Castiel's face, mindless of the black sludge he spread like oil across borrowed skin. "Cassie."

Those eyes cleared for only a second, then that second became realization, and blue clouded over with fear and anguish and horror. The reality of what had happened to him was wrapped all around the angel, slithering over his skin like death. A dying death, but still death.

"It's going to be okay, Cassie," Balthazar promised. The little spark of grace, pure and valiant, sat in the middle of all that darkness. A little flame that Balthazar knew would grow. It had worked.

It had _worked_.

Castiel passed out, those eyes rolling back into his head and the body going limp in the chair. It would take time, time for that grace to grow and flourish, to fight back the wickedness and untwist what was left. But there was hope.

-o-o-o-

Dean rubbed at the clear expanse of skin on his left arm. It was…weird, to no longer have the puckered, raised skin on his bicep. The mark had been gone by the time he'd managed to form thoughts into actual words again, sitting on the panic room floor, trying to get 'I'm fine' past his locked jaw. So Sam and Bobby could stand the hell down. Honestly, Dean was kind of surprised Bobby hadn't started shooting things, considering how long it had taken him to unhinge his mouth.

They'd done it. Apparently.

Castiel was…well, he sure as hell wasn't 'okay' but he was apparently on the mend. All that disgusting black goo fell off him over the next several hours, sloughed off like living mud. Angry mud. Bobby and Sam had put together a purifying ritual to vanquish the bubbling, squirming shit completely. All four had watched with silent satisfaction as the black guck sizzled and burned off into nothingness.

They'd had to wash the poor angel down with a hose afterward. Balthazar had only shaken his head when Sam started to unchain him, thinking they'd get him upstairs and showered off.

"Too soon to tell," he'd said quietly, despite his own reassurances that the ritual had worked. "Better not risk it."

It was clear it pained him to leave his brother chained up like a monster in a cage, but Dean appreciated the practicality. Safety first wasn't exactly the Winchester way, but with the fate of the planet resting on them, it was a policy they probably needed to follow more often.

So the newly-minted angel had stayed in the panic room, chained up, in and out of consciousness, for forty-eight hours. He'd burned one hell of a fever for the first thirty-six of that, but Balthazar hadn't been worried. The grace fighting the infection, he'd said.

"It's going to be a slow journey," Balthazar said one night when it was just him and Dean down in the panic room, moonlight filtering in from the vent above and a lamp lighting the rest of the room yellow. "But he's a fighter. Always has been."

The angel turned to the Righteous Man with a quirk of his lips then and told Dean he would like Cassie, once the guy was back to himself.

Dean just snorted. "Way you painted him? Sounds too much like a goody-two-shoes for me."

"Maybe," Balthazar shrugged, the first light in his words in way too long. Some days Dean regretted dragging him into this war. Most days, though, he knew they didn't stand a chance without him. "But easily corruptible."

The words were out of his mouth before he realized what he'd said and the angel quickly sobered. Dean eyed him from his periphery. From one brother to another, with both brothers having been wrapped in undeniable darkness at one point of another, Dean understood.

"Easily corruptible, huh?" The hunter smirked, sending Balthazar a challenging look. "Think we can get him to join our side in the prank war?"

"Our side?" Balthazar scoffed, nose raised in the air. "My side, certainly."

"Hey, since when are you on your own side?"

The angel eyed the human, who'd clearly taken mock-offense to _his_ angel not being on _his_ side. Not that Balthazar was on Sam's side either. He let a languid smile stretch over his borrowed features. "Since I was the one that glued Sam's fingers to his keyboard last month and put food coloring in your shampoo the week before that. And yet, you blamed each other."

Dean had attempted to punch an angel in the arm that evening and learned what slamming his knuckles into an unmovable wall of divine muscle was like. Fun times.

Now, alone in the panic room but for the passed out not-monster-maybe-angel dude sitting in the chair in front of him, Dean chuckled at the memory. Balthazar was such an ass. The hunter dropped his hand from his scar-free arm and rolled the sleeve back down, still in the habit of checking the newly minted skin. It still felt weird, not having the scar he'd never wanted and now sort of felt like he was missing.

Dean had volunteered for clean-the-captive-in-our-secret-basement duty today, since they'd all been taking turns. Okay, 'volunteered' was a strong word. Volun-forced was a little closer to the truth. The hunter was busy toweling off their comatose guest's face and forehead – his fever seemed to have broken sometime that morning, leaving the dude covered in sweat but at least done shivering for now – when the man suddenly groaned. Dean backed up about six dozen feet (okay, the bunker wasn't even that wide to start with, but he did put a healthy distance between himself and the questionable-angel) as long lashes fluttered and exhausted eyes slowly slid open.

"Castiel?" he hazarded, approaching one foot at a time with extra caution.

The angel groaned again, seeming to have trouble keeping his head up. "Where…?"

Dean let out a breath of relief. The _thing_ that Castiel had been before all this never spoke. Sure, it wasn't exactly the Fort Knox of definitive proof, but it sure as Hell made him feel better. The hunter took the last two feet between them at a cautious pace, regardless. Both for his safety and so as not to spook the guy who probably had no idea what was happening.

Castiel's head lolled again, the angel on his third failed attempt to hold his head up.

Dean knelt down in front of the guy, dropping the cloth he'd been using to clean him off back into the bowl of water he'd come down with. Slowly – and oh so ready to run – he reached out and cupped the guy's neck, trying to help him keep his head upright. "Hey, you with me, buddy?"

Blue eyes cracked open again, and Dean was taken back by just how damn blue they were. He was pretty sure they might be glowing and tried really, really hard not to let that freak him out. Just…just the guy's grace fighting off the darkness, like an infection. Yeah. That. Sure.

"Hey, there, Castiel." Dean smiled at the angel, trying to go for comforting. He needed to holler for Balthazar but didn't want to scare the guy, who was clearly confused. "I'm Dean."

"Winchester," Castiel finished, head lolling again before he managed a position, weight primarily pushing against Dean's bracing arm, and locked eyes with the hunter. Damn, but was that not the most intense gaze Dean had ever found himself under. "The Righteous Man."

Suddenly, those eyes lit up (figuratively, for once) and Dean found himself drawing in a surprised breath. A smile spread across Castiel's face, water pooling in his eyes as relief stole across his features.

"You made it. You were saved."

It took precious seconds for Dean to find his voice again. There was something about the open rapture on the guy's face – the damn relieved happiness, all for _his_ sake – that had the hunter choking up with emotion he flat out refused to acknowledge.

Damn.

"Y-Yeah," Dean managed to stutter out, but Castiel's eyes were already closing once more. "Balth got me out. Uh, Balthazar."

Shit, the angel had already passed back out, likely hearing none of that. Probably wouldn't remember it next time he woke, either. Dean sighed, hanging his head and blowing out a breath of air. He let go of Castiel's neck, the angel's chin lolling slowly back down to his chest. Fuck, he had to go get Balthazar, let him know the angel was awake – had been awake – and talking.

That was a good sign, right?

Dean rose, grabbing the towel and bowl of water and booking it double time to the panic room door. He paused on the threshold, turning back to the angel inside. For the first time since all of this had started, Dean was damn sure it was an angel in there and not something else.

He couldn't shake those eyes or smile, which stuck with him. They made both his arm and his throat burn with emotion. So Dean turned away, not really ready to acknowledge the guy who'd given up everything – more than just his life – to get Dean's worthless soul out of Hell. Who'd gotten him to Balthazar, saddled that angel with him and forced the guy to stick around. That nerdy little angel strapped to the chair in there had pretty much given the world a fighting chance against the Apocalypse, and Dean had no idea how to thank him for that.

Yup, nope, that was the realm of chick flick feels he was definitely not dealing with today. Dean closed the panic room door with a loud groan of metal and darted up the stairs to get Balthazar.

The stupid angel hadn't been wrong though. He liked Cas already.

-o-o-o-

 _ **Up Next:** Castiel's recovery is a slow one and, in the meantime, the boys and their angel still have to fight an Apocalypse. War, Famine, The Whore of Babylon, and Pestilence all await our mighty heroes. _

_**Posting Schedule** : No idea when the next installment will be up. I kind of write this story in the lulls of TRSF or when I need a change in pace. But it's got a couple more chapters that I'll get to eventually! _

_._

 _Cheers,_

 _Silence_


End file.
